Nocturne
by Scion of Kushiel
Summary: The Dark Lord has won, and a new era reigns. Yet, not all is as is should be, so long as some pockets of resistance still remain. DARK! Please R
1. A New Era

**Disclaimer: Only the plot bunnies are mine, most of the characters belong to the great Madame Rowling. I only steal them from time to time to play with them.**

Nocturne

Chapter One: A New Era

The unthinkable had happened: Voldemort had won the war.

It had been so strange, the first few weeks, and it was a queerness that didn't fade or disintegrate with the passage of months and years. Voldemort had won. For a full month after his victory, grisly corpses had been on display outside what was formerly the Ministry of Magic, an object lesson for any who would protest dissatisfaction. Most passed by them as quickly as possible, their eyes adverted from the disgusting trophies, holding their breath against the putrid stench of decay. The Death Eaters, those finally rewarded with what they thought of as power, would pass just as quickly, but not without leaving a curse or wad of spittle.

One man, however, clad in the silver trimmed black velvet robes of one high in favor with the Dark Lord, did not hurry by, nor did he swear or spit or laugh. His stomach churned violently at the purely physical reminders of sight and smell, despite his hardening experiences. More so, though, his bile would rise in his throat at the memories. There, right on the end, hung the bits and pieces left of Remus Lupin after Fenrir Greyback had finished what he started so many years ago, the final step of utter destruction. Severus had never considered the man a friend, but he had been…tolerable, the past few years, and had made an effort to be nice to his old adversary. There hung, too, Minerva McGonagall, her old body dessicated from starvation even before they'd gotten around to killing her, held captive after that final, momentous battle. He could name, not all of them, but many of them.

It was his self-imposed penance. Dumbledore's faith had been so absolute that Harry would succeed that, in a very uncharacteristic fashion, Severus had made no contingency plans, not thought of any desperate gamble to slay the deranged murderer ruling half the wizarding world. He had given up everything for the side that lost, and was rewarded beyond belief by the man he'd betrayed, by the one he'd wanted more than anything in creation to destroy.

He had truly come to loathe irony.

There was never a set time for his coming to the old Ministry. Sometimes he'd come in the morning, before heat could make the smell unbearable. Sometimes he'd come at night, when no one else was traversing the way. And when his guilt ate at him intolerably, he'd come in the middle of the afternoon, simply leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the street, looking and remembering.

Often, it was the gate that absorbed his attention. There, in place of pride, their legs dangling with every movement of the once majestic gate, hung the remains of the Golden Trio. There had been quite a bit of argument, he recalled, in how to position them. Most had argued that, as the archenemy of their lord, Potter should be in the middle, at the peak of the triangle, while some, Lucius Malfoy among them, had claimed that it was more aesthetically pleasing to have Granger swinging at the apex, balanced on either side by the boys. The majority, however, had won out, and there hung Potter, suspended in such a way that he was stretched but not split by the opening of the gate, flanked in death as he was in life by Granger and Weasley. He remembered, and his penance continued.

Their bodies were no longer there, taken down when they'd decayed past all recognition, but still he came, his mind's eye still seeing them there. He drew his robes tighter against the chill that accompanied the setting sun, his pitch eyes unfathomable. He didn't even flinch as the pop of an Apparation resounded in the air next to him.

"Severus," the newcomer greeted. "How astonishing to see you out of your home."

"Contrary to popular belief, Lucius, I have been known to get out once in a while. Every day, in fact," he replied, not taking his gaze from the wall.

Lucius Malfoy had been little changed by the years. His appearance was as immaculate and discerning as ever, his expression distantly disdainful. He had been well rewarded for his loyalty and viciousness, having been granted the position as the Dark Lord's second. The pair maintained the façade of friendship, at least, for it pleased their Master, but in truth their ways had separated.

Severus Snape was a very private man, who lived a very private life. He had, respectfully, declined his Master's offers of prestige and glory, accepting only a generous living and locking himself away in his house most of the time. This disappointed many of his fellows, but they left him alone at the indulgent command of the man who had once been Tom Riddle. For all the years that he had pretended to serve Voldemort, he had been surrounded by children; his Master didn't mind giving him some peace.

Occasionally, however, there came a time when the Dark Lord wished the company of his severe Potions Master, and he would send Lucius out with the…invitation, as it were, to join them for an evening or a celebration.

This was one such time.

Lucius watched his old friend from the corner of his cold grey eyes, but the other man's face was unreadable. "He wants you there, Severus," he informed him without preamble.

"Where?" came the simple reply.

"At the Syron's Lair, tonight. They'll be dining at eight." Severus nodded abstractedly, but said nothing. Having delivered his message, Lucius saluted him mockingly with the head of his cane and Disapparated.

His reflections continually astonished him. His eyes would fall on Potter or Weasley, and dwell there for a time, but they would inevitably travel on to Granger, where they would remain until he left. Even now that the bodies were gone, he would stare at that space she had been, his thoughts flying about frantically. He just couldn't get past the feeling that he had been looking at himself.

Hermione Jane Granger, muggle-born, dead at eighteen, and without a doubt, one of the brightest minds the wizarding world had ever seen. She had been a know-it-all Gryffindor, desperate to fit into a world full of people that didn't want her there, and she had stood strong against them all. He had seen her when the Trio had come through yet another of their numerous escapades during school, her face flushed with adrenaline, her breath coming fast, yet she had never radiated the joy or the thrill that her counterparts had. She had seemed content that it had been accomplished, that it was a job well done, but for her, that was as far as it ever went. It was in the library, reading a new book, or discussing something one-on-one with a professor, that Granger had been happy, when she had truly glowed. Let the boys have the quests of Quidditch and petty insults; her grail was knowledge, and she pursued it relentlessly.

Just as he had.

Physically, he bore no resemblance to the bushy-haired girl, but still he saw himself. He had wasted his entire life trying to redeem a mistake he had made in his youth, and she had been killed before she could leave her youth behind. Sighing, he turned away and vanished, appearing in his country house.

It was one of the few things he had accepted as 'just reward' after the war was ended, a great deal of money and a house away from the city, away from activity and noise and company. It was his sanctuary, his escape from the world. There, within those walls, memory was allowed to walk without fear of capture, or death. Memory was allowed to claim him as its own, to continue his penance.

He wandered up the stairs to the master suite, standing in front of his wardrobe and staring at the clothing held within. His robes were mandatory, they marked his place as someone to be feared and respected by all those who had not helped to bring the regime about.

As he had helped.

Shuddering, he closed the carved doors. There was simply no point in changing clothes for a celebration, especially not at the Syron's Lair; they would simply be coming off after dinner anyway. Coming off and possibly getting burned when he got home, depending on how the night went.

He heard the clock in the hall chime half past seven as he smoothed his black hair back into a leather thong, away from his face. He left his house and appeared in Diagon Alley just as the lamps sprang into life in the darkness. There was little remaining of the original Diagon Alley, where so many students had laughed and shouted in the course of buying their school supplies. Knockturn Alley had expanded, had taken over, and there was little if anything that did not have an element of the unsavory about it. Masking his distaste, he glided from the Apparation point towards the appointed place.

The Syron's Lair had once been a staple of Knockturn Alley, where the morally deficient could buy company and consolation if they had the price. It was stiff price for even the most simple girls and tasks, but well worth it, and it was no surprise that it was once again the Dark Lord's chosen entertainment. It had relocated to the center of Diagon Alley, just next to the former Leaky Cauldron, and Madame Lareine commanded it as efficiently as ever. Her clientele was fastidiously chosen; even the robes of a Death Eater didn't guarantee your admittance into her empire.

The angelic looking girl at the door nodded to Severus as he approached, her flawless memory checking him against the register of approved guests for the night. Her bodyguard, a hulking black man, opened the door for him, and he inclined his head briefly in acknowledgement.

Madame Lareine herself was waiting in the nave to escort him in to the private dining room, a service she provided only on the nights when the Dark Lord graced them with his presence. With spun gold hair and cornflower eyes, she was an astonishing beauty, but a fading one. Fortunately for Madame Lareine, née Olivia Walsham, nature had gifted her with a keen intellect and the kind of beauty that ages gracefully, the flower wilting around the steel encased within. She kept it well hidden, but she had a soft spot for the dark, brooding man, who never mistreated her beloved girls and always left more than his fee.

"He is celebrating something new," she told him quietly, in a still dulcet voice. "He himself is taking care of the finances."

"That is good to know," he answered, his tone equally low. "I thank you." He'd never bothered with the rituals of polite society, but he adhered to them now, if only in deference to that mocking god, irony. Rudeness was, in so many ways, the rule, and he was determined to have his small spites.

His eyes adjusted to the lower lighting of the dining room, the candles floating in last eddies above their heads. The Dark Lord looked up when he entered, his vermillion gaze gleaming. "Severus," he greeted sibilantly. "I am very glad to see you here."

Severus bowed deeply, but not a fraction more than absolutely necessary. "When my lord requests, I shall always make every endeavor to fulfill," he replied, his sonorous voice wringing the sincerity out of the falsehoods.

Tom Riddle gestured grandly to the seat on his left, opposite the ever-elegant Lucius. "Sit beside me, my Potions Master. You have earned your place, and tonight I must insist you claim it."

"As you will, my Lord," he murmured, sweeping to his seat. His gait was such that his robes still kept their characteristic billow, an unnatural grace that many aspiring sycophants tried to gain as an affectation, but none came even close to the fluidity of the original.

Half hidden in the shadows of the large, formal room, men with the trained silence of observers waited. Once all dozen of the Dark Lord's guests were arrived and seated, these men left at the wave of the Madame's hand, returning only a moment later with their wards. These were the bodyguards, each one pledged to protect one of the Lair's girls with his very life. With all the attention on the parading beauties, the house-elves sent the food up to the table, ladening it with steaming roasts, strong gravies, crisp vegetables, and all manner of things meant to tempt the palate, as well as encourage longevity in certain endeavours.

Severus ignored the girls, as he usually did when he had a choice about the matter. They were the only custom tonight, and these thirteen men would have a pick of any of the most beautiful women money could buy, but he had little interest in them. It was too much to hope that he could avoid the experience entirely, but he'd be damned if he'd be seen salivating over them like a wolf on the scent of prey.

He waited patiently for the Dark Lord to take the first bite, then applied himself to his food with studied timing. It was a game of his, a private amusement, to see how much small talk he could avoid by carefully planning his bites and chews to coincide with the openings in conversation. There were times, however few and far between, where he was able to get through an entire meal without saying a single word, only nodding occasionally as if he were paying close attention.

One of the girls, an exotic temptress with smoldering black eyes, sat down to a mid-sized harp, her fingers running over the strings and ushering forth pure sound. A moment later, one of her friends began singing softly, her voice perfectly pitched to blend with the sweet tones of the harp. They were perfectly trained, the girls of the Lair. Beautiful, elegant, witty, educated, talented, pliant…they were everything and only what the customer wanted to be, and could change at the drop of a hat to what the situation required. Most of them were almost more courtesan than prostitute, charming enough company even without the sex. They had the amazing ability to make most men believe that they existed solely for their pleasure.

Severus wanted none of it. He didn't want to believe, even for a moment, that someone loved him and cared for him, abhorred the thought of being duped into such easy contentedness. He deserved no such ease. He hated the Syron's Lair, where the sophisticated finery of china and drape served only to mask the fact that this was an establishment where men paid girls for that most primitive of human drives. Scratch the gilt surface only the slightest bit and it was too easy to find the gasping, sweating, grunting reality.

The meal finished, one of his rare successes at silence, and all eyes turned expectantly to the Dark Lord. His long, thin face stretched into a grotesque facsimile of a smile. "Perhaps," he began slyly, "you are wondering as to the cause of this beneficence?" Agreeing murmurs, careful not to sound too curious but equally cautious not to appear disinterested, answered him. "I have received word from the wizarding 'president' of America, and he has sworn to claim no action against us. That neutrality will not save him when the time comes, but it leaves us free to continue with our work into Eurasia and the Mediterranean," he informed them, and delighted cried issued forth from his closest circle, but for two. He didn't need to look to know who those silent voices were; Severus and Lucius never indulged in such undignified things. "It won't be long now, my most loyal followers, before the whole of the world trembles at our feet, and how much greater the rewards shall be then. Until that point, we are here tonight for a simple taste of what everyday will be like once this has occurred."

That was their cue, their permission to unleash the slavering, lusting beasts within. Severus leaned back in his chair, sipping at his wine as he watched his fellows fall upon the girls, some making their choices quickly, others expressing a heartbeat's consideration before letting their prey lead them away. The man who was once Tom Riddle stopped in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder at the dark man.

"I will never understand, Severus, why you insist on being so ascetic," he commented mildly, but the former spy could detect the underlying warning, the inherent threat.

He inclined his head in slight obeisance, pitching his voice to the perfect blend of respect and humor. "I wish merely to let the excellent meal settle before engaging in more…active…pursuits, my Lord," he answered politely. "It would be a shame to waste such fine company on something as degrading as a stomach cramp."

Laughing, a sound which sent hidden shivers down Severus' spine, the reptilian man nodded and continued on his way.

Madame Lareine emerged from her station near the door and sent the remaining girls out with a small flutter of her beringed fingers. She knew Severus' preferences, and she knew that he would later request one of her girls to appease the whims of the man who ruled them all. Until that point, he would, as usual, wish simply to be left alone. With a last look around, she gave a satisfied nod and left him in peace.

Surprisingly enough, however, there was one girl who stayed in the room. She'd seated herself quietly in the shadows when they'd entered, and while he knew he'd seen her before on other visits, his gaze had never been drawn to her. She caught his notice now, abandoning her refuge in the half-light and emerging into the full gleam of the candles. He caught only a passing glance at her face as she seated herself at the polished piano, not playing anything, simply resting her hands on the ivory keys and regarding them thoughtfully. The girl was beyond attractive, of course, Madame Lareine would engage no one that did not far surpass the usual superlatives, but there was something deeper in her, a solemnity that gave grace and elegance to her actions.

Blue-back hair cascaded in silken waves down her back, caught back from her face with amethyst and diamond studded combs. Her vivid violet eyes were huge against her alabaster skin, delicate features giving her an almost otherworldly look. While he knew that the girls themselves owned nothing but what was directly given to them by a patron, she availed herself of the house's borrowed wealth with more restraint than the other girls, dressing herself in a semi-sheer lavender robe that, while leaving only a little to the imagination, somehow seemed to clothe her more fully than all the spangled, bejeweled confections normally seen.

He continued to sip at his wine, watching her with interest. He knew that somewhere in the darker corners of the room, her bodyguard stood, ready to stop anything that got out of hand with either word, fist, or hex, but he was no threat to the girl, so the bodyguard remained out of sight.

The girl twisted around on the bench to look at him, nodding towards the instrument with a quizzical quirk of her eyebrow. He said nothing, merely inclined his head the barest amount, and she turned her back to him once more, her fingers beginning their soft dance across the keys.

He found the song entrancing, and that in itself was enough to astound him. In the years since his world had shattered completely, he had become inured to beauty in all its various forms. It was not a song that one would expect to hear in such an establishment. It was not the husky crooning of a seduction, nor the sweet promise of a lover. It was not the jovial laughter of a raucous good time, nor the soothing hush of uninhibited sleep. In fact, if he'd had to put a name to it, he might even have called it a requiem. There was something about it, something so infinitely sad, that caught at his heart, all but frozen beneath his self-castigation. There was a pace to it, a subtle rhythm that bespoke vaguely at life and light, but it was a song of mourning, a song of despair, something with which he was only too familiar.

Severus started when the requiem ended, his long fingers clutching convulsively at the stem of the glass. It shocked him how relaxed he'd become, that the sudden silence could unnerve him so. He wished for her to continue, to keep playing, but didn't wish to break the spell so much more profound than any incantation or wand-waving could create.

As if divining his thoughts, she flexed her fingers and resumed, this time choosing a soft nocturne that drifted dreamily through the space, carrying his tension along with it. He didn't understand how something so simple could go against more than twenty-five years of forced alertness with nary a battle to show for it, but for once in his life, he simply let it happen. Later, perhaps, he would request her of Madame Lareine, but for now, he was more than content to let her simply have her time.

Time passed, he honestly wasn't sure how much, and Lareine entered, eyes widening almost indiscernibly at the sight of Severus Snape nearly dozing in his chair. "Lord Snape," she murmured, loathe to bring him back to the mundane world of cares. "The Dark Lord inquired of you; he wished to know if you felt your meal sufficiently settled."

Pitch black eyes snapped open and caught her own, and she suddenly felt a keen affinity for the mouse quivering before the owl. He scowled briefly, but the expression faded as his gaze traveled back to the piano. "What is her name?" he asked quietly.

"She is called Nocturne," she answered simply, and that was information enough. All her girls had real names when they came in, of course, but those names were forgotten at the door. That anonymity was one of their protections, just as the bodyguards, and what they were called within the confines of the Lair were all the gentlemen needed to know.

"Nocturne," he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue in the dark, sensuous voice that was his signature as much as his sneer and his grace.

The girl in question turned to glance at the both of them, her breathtaking face void of all expression. It was not the cultivated indifference of, say, Lucius, but instead a genuine lack of concern, and somehow that made her all the more fascinating.

"Are you interested in her company, Lord Snape?" The Madame asked delicately.

"I had rather ask if she were interested in mine," he muttered under his breath, not really intending anyone to hear.

Her lips twitching in a fleeting smile, Nocturne cocked her head and regarded him, considering him with a great deal more thought than had been shown at the selection of her fellows. She shared a look with her employer, her silence as intriguing as her music, and slid off the piano bench, walking towards him with fluid steps. Stopping a few feet away, she met his eyes and extended her hand out to him, watching him.

Setting down his long empty wine glass, Severus remained seated for a moment, his mind wrapping itself around the current puzzle. It had been a long time since his brain had been so happily employed, and his lips curved in an all but indistinguishable smirk. Standing, he slid his cool hand into hers, and allowed her to lead him from the room.


	2. Dangerously Close

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters belong to the great JKR, I merely borrow and tease.**

**_WARNING: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of sex, hence the rating of M. If you are underage or are squicked, please skip this chapter and wait for the next one to be posted._**

_A/N: Please review. I really like reviews. They make my day._

Chapter Two: Dangerously Close

Slightly bemused, Severus Snape allowed himself to be led deeper into the building, Nocturne's elegant hand clasping his. Her fingers were soft against his palm, urging him onward without exerting much pressure. He was vaguely aware of a presence moving behind them, but he was used to the Lair and its ways, and he knew that it was merely her bodyguard, the ever-present silent shadow.

Nocturne ascended several staircases, up into the very heights of the Lair, and with her free hand, caressed a simple white door. It swung soundlessly open at her touch, revealing a tastefully done up room in shades of lavender and navy. A curtained bed, its velvet hangings gathered at each post with a silver band to keep them out of the way, dominated one corner, a wardrobe against one of the walls.

What drew his attention was the plain piano in the far corner, pages of music stacked neatly within the open bench. The prostitute's shadow detached itself and retreated through a thin door into a separate chamber, readily available should he be needed.

"Nocturne," he murmured, feeling that any voice at normal volume would be too much. "Would you play for me?"

Smiling slightly, the young woman nodded and released his hand, making her way over to the corner of the room. She closed the bench and sat down, scooting it closer, and somehow managed to make the motion not as awkward as it should have been. As soon as her fingers caressed the ivory keys, he felt the tension in his soul slowly begin to unwind. He didn't understand it, couldn't for the life of him explain it, but for the first time in three years, he felt almost at peace.

His feet, moving of their own volition, brought him to stand behind the piano bench and its occupant, watching her fingers dance eloquently across the keys. His hands coming to rest on her shoulders elicited no jump or start, no hesitation in the serenity of her song. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to float on this unexpected, and entirely undeserved, heaven.

Shifting on the bench, Nocturne made room for him to sit beside her, never halting or slowing her play. He took the proffered space, his hand trailing down her back to rest at the base of her spine. His thumb rubbed small circles into the semi-sheer silk of her robe. He opened his eyes when the music stopped, only to find her watching him thoughtfully.

"What is it?" he murmured.

She simply shook her head, that tiny half-smile twitching at the corners of her lips. It intrigued him, that almost smile, because he couldn't fathom what it meant. It held so many secrets, and yet, was somehow so soft.

If there was one rule that Severus Snape had in his dealings with prostitutes, it was that there was absolutely no kissing in the traditional sense. It was much too intimate, too real, for the farce of paid sex. But sitting there, his finger rising against his will to lightly touch the corner of that mysterious Mona Lisa smile, he found himself wanting to kiss her so badly his hand trembled with the need.

Whether it was through innate intuition or through trained skill, Nocturne seemed to understand his dilemma, and neatly solved it for him. Leaning forward, she gently pressed those soft lips against the corner of his mouth, more intimate in some ways than a true kiss, but far enough away that his distance didn't feel entirely threatened. She followed it with a slow trail of kisses down the line of his jaw and onto his throat, her hands fallings from the piano to rest on his trouser covered knees. In all his visits to the Syron's Lair, he had been the companion of girls who had been taught to impeccably arouse him, but never had he been so sweetly seduced as with this elfin beauty with her wide eyes.

Severus ran his long fingers through her silky hair, pulling out the jewel studded combs and laying them against the ivory and black keys. His progress unimpeded, he let his hands sift through the heavy weight of her curls, the pure blue-black of a raven's wing. Hearing the barest of sighs as she suckled against his adam's apple was all the encouragement he needed, and he tugged gently to pull her head back and bare her throat. Sensuously, he licked a path down her throat to her collarbone, shifting aside the silk to kiss and nibble along the graceful sweep of the bone. Her lavender eyes fluttered closed and she melted into his arms, letting him hold her weight as he pushed the silk further and further down her arm.

"Do you want to-" he asked suddenly, and she nodded without opening her eyes.

Pulling her suddenly into his lap, he stood and walked across the small room to the bed, laying her gently on the mattress. He pulled his wand from his belt and cast a Silencing Charm on the room, making sure that it didn't affect the bodyguard's room. He set it on the nightstand and sank down onto the edge of the bed, simply drinking in the sight of her.

Her slender throat curved gracefully into sloped shoulders, her arms relaxed against the deep blue sheets. She wasn't terribly buxom, but neither was she small, her breasts the perfect size for her diminutive body. His hands itched to grasp them, to feel them fill his palms, but he had long ago learned the virtue of patience, and he continued in his scrutiny. Her ribs gave way to a thin waist, nearly too thin, as if the food she ate didn't contain quite enough nourishment, before flaring out into wide hips. Childbirthing hips, his mother would have called them, disparagingly referring to her own. He shunted that memory aside, locked it away in the storehouse of his mind, and observed how the woman's thighs melded into shapely legs and delicate feet. The robe, shifted by his first exploration, bared one shoulder and the swell of one breast, tempting him further, and he gave in, undoing the silk cord frogs and carefully separating the sections of the robe as if opening a book to lay the pages bare.

She was beautiful.

Nocturne allowed him to look his fill, understanding that this was something new to him. She knew of him, of course, all the girls did; he was Severus Snape, the Dark Lord's left hand, the dour Potions Master who disdained society for his own seclusion and emerged only at his Lord's decree. Her fellow girls giggled in the safety of their own dining room, away from the prying ears of clients, of his dark brooding. It was the dream of many a girl to raise a genuine response from the man, something more than the physical predictability of arousal and release. His obsidian eyes, when they traveled back up her body to meet hers, reflected his appreciation.

She reached out to him, letting her fingertips caress his strong jaw, trail along his large nose. They played along the bump near the bridge, that half-smile reappearing. She moved on to the graceful sweep of his eyebrow, flirting along his ear, down his throat to the clasps of his outer robes. Undoing the clasps with practiced ease, Nocturne rolled them off his shoulders, letting them fall to the floor behind him. She smoothed her hands along the fine wool covering his chest, snaking down the row of buttons keeping the black frock coat closed tight about his body. He permitted her her exploration as she had permitted his, keeping still as she sent the frock coat falling down his arms to join the robes. His immaculate white dress shirt joined them a moment later, but when her hands moved to the buckle of his belt, he caught them in his own and brought them to his mouth, brushing kisses against her knuckles.

He lightly nipped the tender skin on the inside of her wrist before lathing it with his tongue, perversely thrilled to hear her sharp intake of breath. He had yet to hear this haunting beauty speak, but he didn't need to. Words were trite in these kinds of situations; he was just as happy not to have to hear them or utter them. His lips found their way to the crook of her elbow, to the curve of her shoulder, lingering where it flowed into her neck. He bit softly and she shuddered, one hand coming to rest against his bare chest. She didn't push him away.

Slipping his hands underneath her, he arched her gently to let the silk slide from her arms, pooling beneath her on the bed. Then, because he couldn't resist the picture so temptingly offered, he lowered his head to her chest, simply resting his cheek for a moment on the soft globes of her breasts. He could feel it move up and down with her steady breathing and he pulled away slightly, unable to bear the terrible tenderness of such closeness. His breath blew lightly across one purplish-brown nipple and it tightened into a peaked nub, practically begging for more attention. Nuzzling it with his nose, he dropped small kisses all around the areola, waiting to feel her hand curling pleadingly in his light chest hair before taking it in his mouth. He sucked it gently, swirling his tongue around the puckered point, relishing her gasp at his sharp nip. He turned equal attention to its twin, caressing the breast not in his mouth with his experienced hands.

One of her hands rose to thread through his long black hair. He had probably meant to cut it at some point, but it had ceased to be important to him, and it fell several inches past his shoulders. She pulled out the plain black leather thong that contained it and shivered at the sensation of it spilling across her breasts in tickling waves. His lips teased the valley between her breasts before forging a path along her taut stomach, tongue dipping into her navel. She sighed as his hand kneaded her thigh, flirting along the edge of her core. He was an unusual man, that paid for a woman only to pay attention to her.

His mouth followed the lead of his fingers till his cheek lay against her inner thigh, the musky scent of her womanhood teasing his nostrils. He stroked her gently with one finger, feeling the damp heat against his skin. The breath caught in her throat and he gently slid his thumb through her folds, coming to rest against the hardened nub of her arousal. He didn't move against her, just applied light pressure until she thought she might go a little bit crazy. Feeling her shift against him, he gave an unexpected grin and blew lightly against her clitoris, his tongue snaking out to taste her for the first time.

She tasted sweet.

With his first taste, he had to have more, and he used his hands to expose her more fully to him. Cleanly shaven, there was nothing to detract from the elegant beauty of her center, the flushed lips glistening with dew. He licked a lazy path to her clitoris, circling it with his tongue and feeling it plump even further under his ministrations. She shifted suddenly, back arching and mound pressing against him, so he wrapped his arms about her hips to keep her more still. He devoured her leisurely, alternating between nibbling the swollen bundle of nerves and licking through her deep slit, listening to her breath grow ever shorter. Her fingers clenched in his hair, treading that razor fine line between pleasure and pain, and he gave in to the building sensation. Severus closed his eyes and rubbed her clitoris with his nose, sliding his tongue into her core and thrusting in and out. She mewed soundlessly, no more than a strangled release of breath, and he wanted nothing more than to feel her come undone around him. He slid one finger to join his nose, circling it around the sensitive nub, and felt her stiffen, her inner muscles rippling around his tongue as she gasped in soundless nirvana. He continued to lick her, caressing her with his tongue, until her muscles began to relax, and he drew away before she could become oversensitive.

He kissed his way back up her body, once again paying adoration to her breasts, and smiled to feel her hands impatiently tugging at his belt. He let her undo it, popping open the button of his trousers and sliding the zipper down. Her slender fingers slipped inside, stroking his hard length and he groaned, automatically thrusting into her small hand. The mysterious smile reappeared against her flushed cheeks, and she pulled his trousers down his long legs, pushing them with her feet until realized he was still wearing his boots. Sitting up slightly, Nocturne gently rolled him onto his back and moved to the foot of the bed, skillfully pulling off his socks and boots, letting the pants follow. For as many layers as he wore, and as covered as he normally was, she was astounded to see that Severus Snape was a follower of the commando rule of underwear. His phallus lay heavily against his belly, emerging from the curly thatch of pubic hair at the juncture of his thighs.

She slowly slid up the length of his legs, her hand wrapping itself around him and not completely meeting. Fisting him gently, she gathered up the first drops of leaking pre-cum and used it to ease the sensation. He watched her narrowly, and she looked up into those fathomless eyes, keeping contact as she lowered her mouth to him. She kissed the weeping head, letting her small pink tongue snake out to lick around the heavy ridge. He wasn't supersized, but she knew from experience that he was larger than many, and she trailed her tongue down the length to slide along his balls. She pulled the fleshy sacs one by one into her mouth, rolling them about her tongue, until he groaned deeply, the sound seeming to come from his toes. She kissed her way back up his shaft, taking as much into her mouth as she could.

"Oh, gods," he ground out harshly, feeling her tongue strongly massaging the underside of his phallus. He wanted desperately to be inside her, to feel her muscles clenching around him as he drove into her. "Please."

She looked up at him, and he could swear her smile turned almost saucy, and her cheeks hollowed in as she sucked him down. Her hand curled around his base, sliding up and down as she bobbed her head, swiveling to cover as much of him as possible. He could feel the telltale tingle in his balls, and knew if she didn't stop, he would come, and he didn't want to, not without being inside of her. He tangled his hand into her hair and tugged sharply, but not hard enough to hurt, and she allowed him to pull her away.

He rolled them over, propping himself up on one arm to brush the hair away from her face. It took a moment to get his breath back, to feet the tightness ease. He knew there was no such thing as perfection, but he didn't want to ruin this moment by letting it be over too soon. She gazed up at him with those incredible eyes, her hand cupping his cheek, and craned her head upwards to plant a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. His severe mouth, so often creased into a sneer or scowl, curved ever so slightly upwards, and he positioned himself between her thighs with care.

Her lower lip caught between her teeth as he slowly entered her, feeling every inch of him within her. He came to rest with their hips touching and simply held them there, intimately joined. He laid his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, and when he dared, he opened his eyes and brushed his lips against her cheek, rolling his hips. She gasped slightly, and when he thrust into her again, she met him halfway, feeling him almost brush against the entrance to her womb. They began a slow rhythm, hips rocking and soundless cries hovering in the air between them. Her hands gripped his shoulders almost painfully, nails digging into his skin, and he increased his movements, gradually increasing his speed and strength until he was driving into her like a man possessed.

Her mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise, but she thrust back against him, their bodies slapping together wetly. Almost without warning, he felt the walls of her core milking him strongly as she threw her head back in a silent scream, her orgasm taking her out of his arms and into some place he couldn't follow. He gritted his teeth and continued fucking her through her torturous release, driven almost to the edge by her convulsing muscles. In an effort to prolong her euphoria, he reached a hand between them and rubbed her clitoris in a flurry of movements, bringing her buckling against him as the waves reclaimed her. She sank her teeth into the meat of his shoulder and he cried aloud, falling with her over the brink.

He collapsed against her, feeling his balls twitch with the force of his release, and rested his head in the curve of her neck. After a moment, her hand wove through his hair, tenderly stroking his scalp. He reluctantly pulled out of her, his softening penis lying sated against his thigh, and pulled her close against him. It wasn't something he did, had ever done, to cuddle after sex, but this extraordinary, intriguing woman baffled him, and he couldn't help but wish to feel her heartbeat against his. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the subtle scent of lavender and heather mixed with sweat and sex. The moisture slowly dried on their skin as they lay against the cool, smooth sheets.

How long they stayed like that, he couldn't tell. He didn't sleep, not truly, but he drifted off to someplace between awareness and oblivion, floating alongside her, feeling her curves molded against him. A knock on the door brought him roughly from his pleasant state, and he scowled in reflex. In his arms, Nocturne stirred and sat up, shoving her thick hair back from her face.

"I apologize, Lord Snape," Madame Lareine's voice told him, muffled by the door. "Our house will be closing in ten minutes."

And that brought reality crashing back down on him. It had been so easy to forget, frighteningly easy to fall into the illusion of significance. But with that simple statement, he was reminded that he was in a brothel and having paid sex at the Dark Lord's insistence. Closing his eyes, he sat up and swung his feet from the bed, resting his elbows on his knees to bury his face in his hands. A touch on his scalp brought his attention back to the other occupant of the room, slender fingers combing gently through his hair.

Nocturne braided the mass of black hair, slightly greasy, and tied it off with the discarded thong, placing it against the bare skin of his back. Sliding from the bed, she picked up his clothing and laid it across the mattress, handing him one piece at a time. She seemed totally unaware of her nudity, moving about the task with grace and dignity. He had a hard time looking at her. The silent prostitute took his chin in her small hand and forced him to meet her eyes, showing him a clear, uncondemning gaze.

He nodded thoughtfully, and pulled her robe from the sheets, assisting her in sliding it up her arms. His fingers brushed her breasts as he fastened it for her, and his cock twitched in reflex. She led him to the door, holding it open for him.

Severus paused in the doorway, looking down at her from the near-foot difference in their heights. "If I were to come back," he murmured almost inaudibly, "would I be well received?"

To his relief, he saw that strange and enigmatic smile. Standing on tiptoe, she pulled him down to her and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, dangerously close to his mouth. Backing away, she let go of his robes and nodded.

If he had been able to stay, he might have seen her slump against the closed door, her forehead resting against the hard wood. He might have seen her bodyguard emerge from his room, long platinum blonde hair mussed from a night of sleeping in a chair by his door, waiting and listening to make sure nothing untoward happened. And just maybe, he might have seen the tears glimmering in her eyes as she leaned into her bodyguard's strong embrace. But, he wasn't able to stay, and all he knew after pressing a small bag of galleons onto the Madame to pass along to her girl was that he had to come back. He didn't understand how, but somehow that silent nymph had sent that smile into every corner of his mind.

He wanted to understand that smile.

Lucius Malfoy clapped him on the shoulder as they both passed through the doors into the former Diagon Alley. "Twins, old friend," he chortled, long blonde hair uncharacteristically out of place. "Twins!"

Unconsciously mirroring Nocturne's expression, Severus merely nodded, walking with Lucius to the Apparation point and not hearing a word that was said.


	3. Sleeping Endymion

**Disclaimer: They do not belong to me, I make no money off of them. Though I certainly wouldn't mind owning Severus…mmmm…._Macbeth_, of course, belongs to the Bard.**

_A/N: Simon Says: leave a review._

**Chapter Three: Sleeping Endymion**

In the two weeks that followed his night at the Lair, Severus could not get the wench out of his head. Her eyes seemed to follow him as he paced restlessly about his empty house, the scent of lavender and heather ghosting about him, phantom fingers caressing his face as he stood outside the gates of the Ministry. Somehow, in some inexplicable, indefinable way, Nocturne had gotten under his skin.

It bothered the hell out of him.

The silence of his house unnerved him now, the echoes of her nocturnes and requiems playing softly inside his head. He fell asleep, surprisingly, to the barely-there lullabies, but would wake up sweating, his fist clenched about himself and his eyes rolling back in his head in release. He'd be damned if he went back, though. He wanted it far too badly. This was his punishment, this exquisite, terrible torture.

After two weeks of this sweet madness, the unexpected knock on his door was almost a relief. He opened it and scowled down at the one who dared disturb him, purely because he had a reputation to maintain after all. He found a trembling boy.

"Beg pardon, Lord Snape," the child fluted after a moment, voice thin with nervousness and fear. "The Dark Lord requests your presence in his office as soon as is convenient for you, my lord."

Which meant, of course, that he was wanted _now_.

Severus didn't say anything, simply nodded and closed the door in the boy's face, stalking upstairs to his wardrobe. It didn't take much decision. Hmm, silver trimmed black velvet or silver trimmed black wool…if it had been a little warmer, he might even need to go with the silver trimmed black linen. With his own thoughts mocking him, he pulled the velvet robes about them and fastened them disinterestedly. He'd begun wearing his hair back in the simple braid that Nocturne had fashioned for him upon his exit from the brothel, simply because he didn't have the patience to cut it.

He Apparated out to the gates of the Ministry, feeling the heavy gaze of the Golden Trio that was no longer there, and walked through them, the ropes swinging in bitter reminder of his failure. Everyone he passed bowed to him, which he ignored to the best of his ability. Did none of them understand? Had none of them even suspected that he was untrue?

He bowed low to the Dark Lord when he entered the elegantly appointed office. It was a spacious room done in deep mahoganies and burgundy, a surprising choice for the Heir of Salazar Slytherin. The man known seemingly a lifetime ago as Tom Riddle sat behind the broad desk, staring moodily at a portrait of his ultimate-grandfather as Nagini lay coiled about the entire room. Severus stepped over the giant snaked and sat in the chair his Master indicated.

"My Lord?" he asked politely, declining the proffered cup of tea.

"We've hit a stall, Severus," Tom said without preamble, long fingers steepled before his face. Careless of his fine robes, he slumped in the chair, resting his elbows on the arms.

"Where, my Lord?"

"The Ural countries have banded together, forming a coalition based upon the goal of keeping us out of their borders." Red eyes narrowed fiercely. "It seems to be focused around one man, a young man of British origin by the name of Charlie Weasley."

"Weasley?" The Potions Master echoed sharply.

"Oh, yes, Weasley. Continuing to be an utter thorn in my side."

Regrets or no, having taught the clan for so many years, Severus wasn't about to disagree.

"He has them flying a flag of unity against my name, and other nations are seeing that," Voldemort hissed. "We cannot afford that, Severus."

"What would you have me do, Master?" Severus asked, forcing the words past the lump in his throat because he knew that's what the despot wanted to hear.

"I need a potion, Severus, one that will mimic a natural death and be utterly untraceable. I know you like to keep to your own devices nowadays, and I certainly don't begrudge that you've earned it, having to stick so close to Dumbledore all those years, but I have no one else of your caliber to ask." He trained vermillion eyes on the dark haired man and Severus automatically pulled up his Occlumency shields. What thoughts to allow? Carefully selected images spun out in his mind, seemingly at random: memories of frustration and irritation at every member of the Weasley clan, very mild irritation at being pulled from his privacy, a long ago dinner with Lucius, and one fleeting breath of Nocturne's lavender eyes. Satisfied, the Dark Lord withdrew from his mind and he stifled a sigh of relief. "When can you have it for me?"

"I do not know, my Lord," he answered honestly, bracing himself just in case. Tom Riddle was not nearly so quick to pull his wand for any given offense as he had once been, but the threat was always there. "It will take some time to either find or create a potion that will meet your specific needs."

"Yes…I would prefer if you could create one. They will have even more difficulty identifying it even if they do think to check for poisons."

"As you wish, my Lord."

"You will hole yourself away as usual, I presume?" Voldemort asked with a trace of good humor.

Severus allowed himself the barest of smiles, just a slight quirk of his thin lips. His habits were legendary in his creative mode. "If it would be permissible."

"So long as you get results, I care not the method you go about it," his Master answered dismissively, and Severus bowed in his chair to the implicit threat. "When you need supplies, go to Oakhyer's Apothecary. He has good materials, and will be told to charge them directly to me."

"Thank you, my Lord, you are most generous."

"You may go now, Severus."

Rising to his feet, Severus bowed once more, turning to walk out of the room. His back itched, and he hated presenting it the tyrant, but explaining that would have cost more than his dignity, so he merely dealt with the discomfort. He toyed idly with the thought of tripping over Nagini and seeing how much weight he could bring down on her, but his famous fluidity would not allow such a clumsy maneuver, so he settled for issuing the reptile a dirty look.

Once outside the gates of the Ministry, he looked about him, trying to decide what to attend to first. Actually having a project again inspired him in some fashion, that not as much as it once would have. When this assignment was done, he decided, he needed to get back to doing his research as more than a diversionary tactic. He let his feet take him further into wizarding London, aimlessly wandering, and he wasn't entirely surprised to find himself outside of the Syron's Lair.

The girl at the door had clear olive skin with huge brown eyes, dark hair cascading around her in sleek brown falls. She nodded at him when he approached, her bodyguard opening the door for him. If they were puzzled at seeing him, neither allowed any such thing to show in their faces or manner, and he returned the silent greeting as he passed.

In the open parlor, girls lounged about, waiting to be chosen, some making quiet conversation with each other, others flirting with the gentleman at their perusal. Severus gave them a perfunctory glance, then put them out of his mind, stepping instead to the small desk immediately by the door. A plump, matronly witch sat behind it, a schedule book open at her elbow.

She looked up at him when his shadow fell across her desk, her hazel eyes glinting with frank curiosity. "Lord Snape," she greeted. "How may I help you?"

"Will Nocturne be available?" he inquired silkily, though inwardly he was astonished at himself. Seeing whores was nothing new; he'd been doing it longer than most of the working girls had been alive. Never, though, had he asked for one by name.

The reception witch raised her eyebrows but glanced down at her book, running a cranberry painted fingernail down the list. "She's free after four o'clock," she answered after a moment. "Would you like to be put in?"

"If it were possible," he murmured. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who her current client was, how many she'd seen today, but he knew the answer would not be forthcoming.

"Of course, my Lord." The plump blonde wrote his name into the book in a flowing hand, ornamental and just about useless for any true archiving. With her right hand, she reached underneath her desk and pressed her wand to a sigil carved into the side of the leg cavity. It would bring out the Madame as soon as she heard it, usually only used for patrons becoming violent, but the Madame had a curiosity about the dour man, and she knew this would be of interest.

"Yes, Rachel, what is it?"

Severus turned to see Madame Lareine emerging from her private office, a quill tucked absently into her French twist. He tried to remember where he'd seen that affectation before and ceased the thought as soon as it came; how many times had he walked through his classroom or the library only to see Granger with a quill or three shoved haphazardly into that wild mane she tried to call hair? "Madame." He kissed the proffered hand, brushing the smooth knuckles with his lips. "Is there a problem?"

Her blue eyes studying Rachel, the receptionist, the proprietor shook her head, glancing down to see the issue in the schedule book. "Not at all," she answered distractedly. Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "It will be some few minutes before Nocturne is able to receive you," she commented smoothly. "Would you care to take some tea with me in my office?"

"I would be honored."

He followed her into the office, a startlingly no-nonsense room with only the most basic of needs met in the furniture and décor. It was almost a relief to see such a blatantly practical room in the midst of all the feminine softness of everything else in the Lair. Madame Lareine watched him from the corner of her eye as she tapped the teapot with her wand to set it to boiling, sitting down into the padded chair behind her desk.

"Please, take a seat," she invited, and he sank into the heavily upholstered guest chair.

"Is there a problem, Madam?" he repeated.

"No." Eyeing him thoughtfully, she took up a new quill and trimmed the end, the knife spinning slowly in her fingers. "I'll confess, Lord Snape, that you intrigue me. You are very…" Her lips pursed reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall as she considered the best, perhaps safest, way to phrase the rest of her thought. "You are very different from your peers," she decided finally.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but little else.

"I will say I was surprised," she continued, running a finger delicately along the edge of the blade. "We've never been graced with your presence without the others."

"I had a meeting," he drawled, rich voice wringing dark inflections from his words. "I needed music to clear my head."

"I wonder if you realize the danger of the line you're walking."

Near a quarter century of being Voldemort's faithful traitor, and she was talking to him of danger?

"After all, I don't suppose Paris ever thanked Helen for destroying his world"

"How could he, when it was Paris who invited her in?"

"Exactly."

He shifted in irritation, the chair creaking beneath him. "I assure you, Madame," he said stiffly. "I am in no danger."

Perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in polite incredulity.

"Madame-"

"Do not fall in love with her, my Lord," she warned. "I would not see you hurt. More importantly, I will not see one of my girls hurt."

"Surely you don't think I would-"

His black eyes riveted on the penknife suddenly buried to the hilt in the polished surface of the desk. "Wands and fists are not the only ways to hurt, my Lord," she said firmly. "Do not fall in love with her."

"I am not in the habit of falling in love, Madame."

"And a fortnight ago, you were not in the habit of seeking out companionship, yet here you are. Where now does that leave us?"

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Nocturne was still soaking in her between-client bath when Thanatos came to the doorway. Leaning her head back against the cool marble, she looked up at him questioningly.

Thanatos and Nocturne had been together a very long time, and they'd long ago learned how to turn her silence to their advantage. His hand shifted at his side, simply a fidget to a casual observer, but it told her volumes. She nodded, closing her eyes while still reclined.

Her bodyguard vanished from the doorway of the bathroom, reappearing a moment later with Severus Snape in tow. Theoretically, brothels were an anonymous business, but the theory was far from the reality. With a warning look at his charge, Thanatos left the bathroom for his room, but not before casting the charm that would alert him in the customer grew violent.

Severus felt more than just his pants tighten as he looked at the elfin beauty in the lightly steaming water. Perhaps Madame Lareine's warning had been more timely than he'd been willing to admit. She placed her hand against the edge of the tub as it to get up and he shook his head, watching her settle back. Lavender and heather, subtle and fragrant, teased his senses as they had the past two weeks. Removing only his cloak, he placed it on the counter and sat carefully on the rim, taking the small hand in his and tracing his fingers along the lines of her palm.

She frowned slightly, barely noticeable against the serene indifference of her customary expression. He didn't seem to be here for sex, but that only excluded one possibility of many. Reaching out, she gripped his chin in gentle fingers and turned his face to her.

Looking into Nocturne's wide violet eyes, Severus couldn't help but compare them to the angry vermillion slits of his reluctant Lord, images of the meeting and his charge rising unbidden to his mind. He closed his eyes against the revulsion, leaning into her touch. He felt distinctly unclean, soiled by his unwilling allegiances.

She cocked her head to one side, regarding him thoughtfully even as she absently stroked his jaw. Silence stretched between them, at once familiar and alien. Finally, she stood, water sluicing down her flawless skin, and tugged him to his feet.

"What-"

Shaking her head, she placed her fingers against his lips. When he showed no signs of speaking further, she dropped them to his silver trimmed robes, undoing the ornate clasps and letting the heavy fabric crumble to the floor. One by one, each button an unsettling caress. She released his frock coat, sending it to join the robes. He wasn't entirely sure what she doing. He'd been undressed before by women, by prostitutes, but it was always the hurried chaos of false lust or the entirely unceremonious use of magic. Never before had the removal of clothing been an act of tenderness. He wanted to stop her, to push her away and reclaim his solitary darkness, but his hands remained motionless at his sides. She dropped his crisp white shirt with the others, running her hands over his pale chest, dispensing easily with his belt. Kneeling down in the water, she reached for his boots, allowing him to steady himself against her head when she pulled off his shoes and socks. Nocturne remained on her knees as she unfastened his trousers, trailing her fingers along each inch of skin as it was exposed.

He stood before her entirely nude, bizarrely awkward in his own skin. With that strange Mona Lisa smile, she silently bade him enter the large tub.

"Why are you-"

Again she silenced him with delicate fingers, and all bemused, he followed the orders of her graceful hands, sitting down with his back against cold marble. She took up a cloth, soaping it well, and began to wash him.

Severus closed his eyes, finding it hard to breathe around the solid weight in his chest. She was washing every inch of him with cloth and hand. It was sensual, surely, but not sexual, a cleaning that went deeper than skin. His heart, his soul, would never be clean, but for a single moment, his scars could be.

She massaged his scalp strongly, wringing an unexpected groan from his throat. She hid her wicked little smile by reaching for a silver pitcher on a stand in the corner, pouring the hot water over his head. He couldn't help but react to her touch, but she entirely ignored it, simply continuing to cleanse him.

Nocturne washed the breaking, perhaps broken man until the water cooled, bringing him to his feet and draining the tub with a wave of her hand. With another silent charm, his clothing disappeared. She took a warm towel and began drying him with the same deliberation and care. Sitting on the edge of the tub, she took him in her mouth, teasing him, punishing him, bringing him repeatedly to the edge and refusing to let him fall. As she had cleansed his body, she cleansed his mind, giving him the punishment no one else knew he needed. A single, grateful tear trickled from underneath his tightly closed eyelids. She swallowed him whole, accepting his salty issue and calmly cleaning him with her tongue and lips.

He knew better than to speak, but he burned with curiosity, the frantic resurrection of an inquisitive mind buried under years of sin and self-recrimination.

While he recovered, the raven haired woman quickly dried herself off, vanishing the towels with a casual gesture. She took him by the hand, ushering him into the bedroom and to the bed, passing a chair with his clothing neatly folded upon the seat. Another wave set the piano to playing softly. She pushed him gently against the bed, pulling the down comforter over him as he bemusedly laid back on the pillows. Sliding in beside him, she slipped under the covers and rested her head against his chest.

Severus Snape had never before slept with a woman, never before felt the sweetness and warmth of a soft woman resting against him without the sweat-slicked prelude of sex. His fine-boned hand rose and caressed her hair, not quite in time to the quiet pavane, and fell into a deep sleep, Nocturne still tracing whispering circles against his chest with one finger.

When the woman awoke, she was alone, a warm hollow next to her telling her that she hadn't been so for very long. Her lavender eyes flew immediately to the corner of the room, knowing she would meet the gaze of her devoted bodyguard.

Thanatos pushed a strand of platinum blonde hair from his eyes, jerking his head towards the nightstand. Two small sacks, one in black satin and the other in raw violet silk, rested atop a scrap of parchment.

She ignored the pouches for the moment, scanning the crabbed, spiky handwriting of the note.

_Nocturne-_

_The black is the fee for Mme Lareine; the other is my patron-gift to you. I would not presume to know your tastes, and therefore ask you to choose what will please you._

_-SS_

She looked back up into icy grey eyes. For answer, Thanatos merely reached to the chessboard set up in mid-play, moving a white bishop to threaten, but not trap the black king.

Check.

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Severus Snape worked as a man possessed, the long dormancy of his intellectual curiosity awakening in a torrent of frenetic energy. Even his house elves, who had flourished under his beneficent neglect, started drawing straws to see which of them would be sent cowering into the lab with a plate of food that doomed to be forgotten, or worse, thrown back at its bearer. Ezekiel, the head elf, soon learned to station a hidden observer, sending down the food in the necessary pauses of brewing. In such a way was their Master barely nourished, and their burden of guilt eased.

The Dark Lord's Potions Master read and wrote feverishly, his spiky handwriting filling page after page with ratios and properties, complex Arithmantic equations taking up entire scrolls. The old love, the old hatred, swelled in his frenzy, all echoes of lavender and heather banished from his mind. It was his first and only mistress, the pursuit, and he caressed each step of progress like a sighing lover. He couldn't embrace that Grail as he once had, though, couldn't cradle it to his soul with his face alight with pure knowledge. No, his purpose infused itself in his awareness, poisoned the delight of the Quest as surely as it would poison Charlie Weasley.

Red-rimmed and half-mad, his pitch eyes stared at the cauldron on its blue-white bed of flames. His hand trembling slightly from exhaustion, he carefully squeezed three drops of Gorgon's Tears from the dropper into the black bubbling base. The entire mixture turned clear and still, cool to the touch despite the flames still beneath it.

Severus extinguished the flames and sank down onto his arms, simply staring at the cauldron and its contents. It was done. There long weeks, but it was finally done.

No, it had yet to be tested.

He glanced at the row of cages along one wall, each containing a niffler happily playing with golden Galleons and trying to get to its neighbors' cages, and more specifically, its neighbors' gold coins. At least one of them would have to die to prove this poison. It was not even that he cared so much about nifflers than that he was simply sick of taking lives. It didn't matter that they weren't human anymore. What mattered was that they were living, and when he was finished with them, for one reason or another, they were dead. He stood and walked slowly along the cages until he found one that was half-asleep, curled into its nest of coins and eyeing him drowsily. It was smaller than the rest, one hind leg shorter and half-curved into its body. He opened the cage and carefully reached in to pull the creature out, cradling him against his chest.

The niffler snuffled against him, sorting through the odd smells of potions, herbs, and the distinct smell of a human male that hasn't washed in three weeks, and closed its eyes fully, falling asleep in the Potions Master's hands. He set it on the lab table across from the cauldron, one hand stroking its long fur. Yes, it would die, but it showed no fear. Perhaps it simply didn't understand what it needed to fear. He awoke it with a shake, opening the creature's mouth and placing two drops on the long black tongue.

It died nearly instantly, convulsing only twice before it fell entirely still. He checked for a pulse or breath, but none came, and he was unsuccessful in attempting to resuscitate it. The niffler was dead, dead at his hand, and soon, the second eldest of the Weasley boys would look much the same.

He wondered if the Weasley boy would be buried with a handful of gold coins the way the niffler would be.

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Nocturne looked up sharply at the dull knock on her door. It was not yet eleven in the morning, she wasn't free for customers until two. At her side, Thanatos rose to his feet, standing between her and the door as she quickly piled together her papers and filed them beneath the music in her piano bench. When all was hidden, she nodded to her bodyguard, who opened the door with wand held ready.

Thanatos nearly recoiled at the sight that met his eyes. In the few times he had seen Snape come to the brothel, never had so much as one hair been out of place. It was not the vanity of Lucius Malfoy, but simply his own fastidious nature. The man was, put simply, a wreck, his face haggard and drawn, the purple smudges under his eyes so dark they were nearly black against his too pale skin.

Nocturne motioned Thanatos back from the door, her lavender silk dressing gown only half closed about her, and went to her tortured patron, one hand rising to smooth against his unshaven cheek. One eyebrow lifted in silent question.

"There's one did laugh in his sleep and one cried "Murder!'," he told her hoarsely, all trace of silk and velvet gone from his rich voice. "One cried 'God bless us', and 'Amen' the other, as if they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening to their fear, I could not say Amen."

She frowned and moved closer to him, trying to make sense, and his hands came to cradle her face strongly, desperately, a broken man staring into her lavender eyes as if to drown himself entirely.

"Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more'," he went on, voice grating over his exhaustion. "Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, the death of each day's life…still it cried 'Sleep no more!' to all the house. 'Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more'." He crushed her to him, murmuring into her hair. "I have murdered hope, the light in the darkness, and I shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more, I shall-I shall…I shall not."

Casting a quick, almost worried look back at her bodyguard and companion, Nocturne eased the babbling man into the room, closing and locking the door. She pushed him gently to her large bed, removing his clothes with magic and performing cleaning and shaving charms with practiced ease, tucking the covers up to his chin like a mother.

He clung to her hand. "I have murdered hope," he whispered, and she could hear the raw despair in his normally steady voice. "God help me, I have murdered the only chance we have."

Climbing over him, Nocturne spooned herself against his back, stroking his hair and smoothing it back from his clammy face until he fell into a restless sleep. She stared at him, her hands still moving, still threading through the slightly greasy locks.

It was a throat clearing that brought her attention away from the enigmatic man in her bed, away from the increasing puzzle that was Severus Snape and back to her bodyguard. Lavender eyes met grey as they thought. At the same time, their eyes cut to the chessboard, to the white knight that was moved a little ways away from the other principals, and yet surrounded by nearly all the pawns.

A deep growl rumbling in his chest, Thanatos flew to his feet, knife clenched in his hand, but his progress towards the bed was stopped by his ward's lifted eyebrows. They shared a long look, and he finally nodded, reluctantly shoving the knife back into its hidden sheathe. Sitting down at the small table where they'd been before, he pulled a fresh sheet of parchment to him and began to write.


	4. Silver and Gold

**Disclaimer: As always, I do not own anything having to do with the world of Harry Potter, and I am certainly not making any money off of it.**

_A/N: So let it be Written, so let it Be: all Reviewers shall Receive Virtual Milk and Cookies in whatever flavor pleases them Best. So Mote It Be._

**Chapter Four: Silver and Gold**

If Macbeth had gone to Nocturne rather than Lady Macbeth after killing Duncan, how very different the story would have turned out, Severus mused. He leaned against the brick wall, staring at the gates of the Ministry, his appearance once again immaculate and exacting, once again shrouded in his cloak of mystery and disdain.

The rope hadn't decayed yet.

His Lord had been pleased. No, more than pleased. The force of his magic had made it difficult to breathe, and Severus had been obliged to perform an anti-frizz charm on his hair upon leaving, it had crackled so in the energy. The Dark Lord had gifted his Potions Master greatly, adding an enormous sum to his largely unused vault at Gringotts. Additionally, he had granted him a boon. It was a great gift, that boon; Severus could ask anything he dared to ask, and if the Dark Lord didn't kill him for his audacity in claiming it, it would be done.

Why was the rope still there?

Even now, the potion was probably at its destination, burrowed deep into an underground sanctuary somewhere in the Ural Mountains, its bearer patiently awaiting the most opportune moment. Charlie Weasley would die, the world would tremble, and Voldemort would celebrate. Just like old times, really, except that his heart couldn't have been further from it.

It was really bothering him that that stupid rope was still hanging over the gates.

They'd used complicated Sticking Charms to assign the Golden Trio to their place of dishonor, and no rope had actually been necessary. Lucius, however, sulking over the downfall of his aesthetic, insisted that rope be draped as if it were actually suspending their dead weight, and they had humored him. The bodies had finally been removed, but the rope was still there, thumping dully against the gates every time they moved.

He wasn't sure why it bothered him, he just knew that it did.

"My friend, you grow more morbid with each passing day," a light, cultured voice commented from next to him.

"Hello, Lucius," he returned without looking away from the gate. "Come to issue another 'invitation'?"

"Can a man not invite an old friend out to dinner?" The blond asked, feigning hurt. "Severus, you wound me."

"A rampaging hippogriff couldn't wound you."

Lucius laughed heartily at that, clapping the other man's shoulder with the hand holding his elegant cane. "You will eat with me, won't you, old boy? I find myself weary of Narcissa's brooding."

"She misses her son."

Malfoy's face darkened, as Severus had known it would. "My son was a traitor," he spat, turning away.

"He was still your son." The former Professor shrugged nonchalantly, arms still crossed against his chest. He didn't often give in to the temptation, but it was always so satisfying to bait his former mentor. "A woman is always more sentimental about such things."

"Yes, of course." The blond pulled himself together with an effort, smoothing his long hair back from his face.

Severus was suddenly reminded of Nocturne's bodyguard, and he hid his smirk with an effort. His black eyes returned to the gate, to the three large discolorations where the bodies had formerly been. They were darker, those three stains, not as exposed to wind and weather and light. It was a testimony, but not a permanent one; in time, they would pale as the rest of the gates had, and years from now, only memory would serve to mark the place.

"Where shall we eat?"

"I have no particular craving," Severus answered dismissively. "Therefore I leave it to you, my friend."

"Let us walk, then," Lucius decided, tapping his cane against the sidewalk. It was purely an affectation, that cane, a handy place to store his wand, but he did so enjoy the picture it made. "We'll see what calls out to us."

"Indulging in cannibalism, Lucius? The Dark Lord frowns on that, you'll recall."

"Ah, Severus, I've missed your humor. You keep yourself too much away from us."

"And now the pontifical we," he noted. "New aspirations?"

They passed the old phone booth that had once been the Muggle entrance into the Ministry. It had been boarded up and half-destroyed upon the Dark Lord's ascension. After all, there was no further need for it. Having finally gained his desired place, Voldemort no longer had to distract the Aurory with his muggle killings, and he had decreed a strict policy of complete non-interference with Muggles. To interact with one, in any fashion, was death. Muggleborns were given one chance to repudiate their upbringing, to turn their backs fully on their family and half of their heritage. Those that chose not to were expelled from the wizarding world, their wands snapped. Many had been surprised at such seeming leniency, but the former Riddle was obsessed with the purity of blood, not the muggles. So long as the new blood could be carefully regulated, it would keep their world from stagnating in inbreeding, but he felt there was really more than enough fresh blood as it was.

They entered the extended Diagon Alley from the former Knockturn, strolling side by side and ignoring the bows that were hastily offered at their passing. It was the height of the market day, just past noon when booths were set up in the streets to compete with the established shops, luring the lunch crowd with loud promises of quality and beauty. It more closely resembled an Arabian bazaar then the respectable shopping district it had been, but the cacophony was mostly the same. It was only the sight that had changed.

He paused indulgently when Lucius stopped at a booth, the blond's gloved hand running over some trinket or other. It was Malfoy's habit to gift his women with jewels and baubles, most of them cheap and easily come up. He regarded the zoo of human life in the crowded space, retreating to a shadow cast by the leaning wall.

The sun gleaming off a stream of blue-black hair caught his attention and he turned sharply to see Nocturne standing at a rival jewelry stand, the black bag tied securely at her bodyguard's waist. She wore the curious combination of wizarding and muggle clothing that continued to be popular, tight black sleeveless robes hugging her curves deliciously. It was cut to reveal the dark plum pants, her arms covered in sheer plum that gave tantalizing glimpses of pale skin. Both the shirt and the robes were deeply cut, her hair flowing down her back in lovely ringlets.

His arms came up of long habit, crossing over his chest as he watched her at her shopping. Thanatos' arms already carried a bag with concealed objects, a slight smile gracing his face at his ward's amusement. Nocturne held up a truly hideous piece in gold and ruby, the jewels flashing as cheaply as glass in the early afternoon sunlight. She smiled at him and dropped it back to the table, not bothering to straighten the chain. Her elegant hands moved over the selections, occasionally brushing against some necklace or bracelet.

If he hadn't been watching her so closely, he would never have seen the absolute stillness that came over her. He couldn't begin to define the expression that came over her face as she lifted a simple gold locket on one finger, holding it up for her companion's inspection. A similar effect rippled across the man's face and he caressed the thin chain as one would a lover. There was an inscription on the locket, or rather, had been, from what he could see, long ago filed off to ease in its illegal resale.

He almost went to her, to argue that the gold did nothing for her skin tone, when she picked up the piece beside it as well, an almost identical heart shaped locket in tarnished silver. They were neither worth a Knut, but she nodded to Thanatos, and Severus saw him take two Galleons from the satchel. The lockets disappeared into the shopping bag and the pair moved on to the next booth, Thanatos' hand at the small of her back as he towered over her protectively.

Her head turned to the right and lavender eyes locked onto black for a silent moment. Without changing the serenity of her expression, she nodded barely to him, the Mona Lisa smile touching her lips.

"Shall we continue, Severus?"

The spell was broken and she turned away, leaving him to give his attention back to his old friend. "Your whoring presents all settled then?" he asked disinterestedly.

"It's cheaper than money, and makes them feel special," Lucius answered gaily. "And I think we should go to Chez Nuit; have you been there yet?"

"I don't know. Has our Lord sponsored a dinner there yet?"

"Severus," his friend chided. "You really must get out more. You're wasting away all the rewards of your hard work."

He thought of the stacks and stacks of Galleons in his vault that would be gathering dust if the goblins didn't clean the vaults regularly and didn't answer. His latest withdrawal had been to retrieve the gold needed to keep his experimental nifflers content.

They moved past the fully intact Quality Quidditch Supplies, young faces still crowded ecstatically at the window, and he thought of the first time he had accompanied Lucius together with Draco to Diagon Alley. How long ago had it been? Twenty years? Nineteen? Draco had only been four years old, already a smaller shadow of his father, and he has been captivated by the sight of the newest brooms in the window. He had left with one that day, much to Narcissa's horror, flying it endlessly about the manor house. The elves had been charged with his safekeeping, and woe betide the poor creature who couldn't prevent the boy from falling.

He wondered, as he often did, what had happened to Draco after that disastrous battle. He had known of the boy's wavering loyalty, of his desperate need to prove himself at all costs. He had known of the charge, of the task, and had even taken the Vow to see it done at all costs. He had spent the whole of the school year working on the boy's doubts, making him uncertain of his ability to perform the task, and had finally been rewarded with Draco's failure. The boy couldn't kill the old man that tried so hard to save his soul, thus it had fallen to his mentor, to Severus, to fulfill the Vow; after all, what a soul worth once previously shattered? His soul could grow no more tarnished by force than it had been by previous choice, and while he had felt it wither yet more within his breast when he cast the curse, it was nothing compared to what it would have done to Draco.

Draco had been punished, naturally, his fair body flailing and arching to round after round of the Cruciatus. A white streak had appeared in his long hair, though not so long as his father's, streaming down from the nape of his neck on his right side, and it was only this that had prompted the Dark Lord to mercy, such as it was. He still had plans for the Malfoy boy, and couldn't afford to kill him or permanently shatter his sanity.

But the Malfoy boy had plans of his own, and he retreated to the sanctuary of the Order, a sanctuary granted reluctantly and only in deference to the instructions left by the Headmaster. He played a short game as a double agent, and it wasn't long before he stood at the side of the Golden Trio in that desperate battle. Lucius had looked for his body afterwards, frantic with fury and despair, but it had never been found. There could be any number of explanations, of course, but Severus liked to think, in his rare moments of optimism, that Draco had escaped, and was even now living far from the magical world in a muggle paradise. Or something like that. It would have been enough for him to know if the boy was alive or dead, but he simply kept his name on the mental roster of all those who were never seen or heard from again.

Preoccupied with his own thoughts and heedless of Lucius' chatter, it was only reflex that kept him from running into a slender woman coming out of a shop. Reaching for her elbow to steady her, he found himself meeting the knowing blue eyes of Madame Lareine. His gaze flicked briefly to the name of the shop, and upon seeing the clothier's, he assumed that she had been arranging costumes for some of her girls. There were some clients who enjoyed certain forms of roleplaying, and she had always made sure to tastefully cater to those whims.

"Lord Snape," she greeted. Her fingers were lightly stained with ink, her left hand rising to slide the quill she'd been holding into her blonde hair, up in its usual French twist. "Lord Malfoy."

Lucius smiled wolfishly and bowed low over her left hand, the one not stained with ink, bringing it to his lips and kissing it lingeringly. "Madame Lareine," he murmured. "What brings you about in the daylight hours?"

"Funny, I was about to ask the same thing of you," she countered lightly. Her right arm was filled with books and folders, and he could see a sheet of parchment peeking out from one of them. From what he could tell, it bore a sketch of a rather skimpy costume, consisting mostly of strands of pearls and gauze.

Severus blinked and looked quickly elsewhere, pushing the image out of his mind. Madame Lareine looked nothing like Hermione Granger physically, but with her arm thus laden and the quill in her hand, he couldn't escape the association, and it wasn't one he wanted to be dwelling on. Memory claimed him enough with the possibly living. He paid his due to the dead each day by going to the Ministry; he would give them nothing further.

"Will you join us for lunch?" he vaguely heard his companion ask, and he swore under his breath, keeping his face composed and mild.

"A good woman knows not to be a burden to men, my Lord." Her tone was playful, but Severus could hear the steel beneath it.

For all his subtlety in his own actions, however, Lucius was entirely incapable of recognizing it in anyone else. "Please, Madame, I insist."

"I must first deliver these items to the House," she replied, lifting her eyebrows at Severus.

He merely arched an eyebrow back and said nothing.

A true gentleman would have offered to carry her books for her, but neither Severus nor Lucius could accurately be qualified as gentlemen, even with Severus' new alliance with politeness. She smiled with practiced ease and walked between them to the Syron's Lair, delivering her items to the fiery redhead stationed at the door. It wasn't open for business yet, but there was always someone stationed out front as a matter of policy. Not to mention, it was good advertisement.

Chez Nuit was an upscale restaurant that had taken the place of Florean Fortescue's, forest and navy drapes covering the windows. They were admitted in without question, given precedence over several groups that had been waiting, and ushered to a commanding table in the corner. It was private, or rather, as private as a table in a popular restaurant could be, and the waiter expertly rattled off the day's selections. Lucius had always said a truly upscale establishment had no need of menus, and this seemed to fit his exacting requirements.

Gritting his teeth at the almost physical pain of it, Severus ordered his meal and prepared to be mildly sociable with the oozing Lucius and the uncomfortably perceptive Madame Lareine.

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Nocturne set the gold locket on the table between them, her neat stack of papers sitting patiently at her elbow, waiting to be reference. She looked up into his ice grey eyes, silent communication passing between them, until Thanatos finally nodded. They stood and drew their wands simultaneously, their timing perfected by pure knowledge of the other. They didn't have to count to make sure it was right, didn't require any kind of gesture or signal. They simply knew when the other was ready and acted appropriately.

In a harsh, grating voice, a voice that was mostly unused, Thanatos barked an incantation more sound than word, a string of syllables that hung shimmering darkly in the air. At precisely the perfect moment, a question of a split second on either side bringing destruction with the wrong answer, Nocturne wordlessly cast a shield, trapping the spell within the shield with the locket. It hit with a muted thunderclap, and both of them were glad for the silencing charm placed all around the room. Their eyes blazed with the echo of light, their wands still raised and ready in the case of emergency.

When the light and shadows cleared, there was an empty space where the locket had been. No scorch marks, no ashes, nothing to indicate that it had existed at all. They met each other's eyes and smiled grimly, lowering their wands in habitual synchronization. Without looking away, Thanatos reached out and moved a second white bishop counter to the black king. Not checkmate, but a more profound check.

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Severus regarded the owl bearing the newspaper with almost a sigh of relief, for it would bring an end to the interminable lunch. The conversation had long since become strained, as Madame Lareine preferred not to discuss 'shop' over table. The owl dropped two things on the table; one was a tightly rolled newspaper bound in twine, the other a plain cream envelope. The envelope was addressed to him, but he cast it aside for the moment to regard the newspaper slowly unrolling in Lucius' slender hands.

A fiercely triumphant look flashed over his face. "At last!" he crowed, slapping it into Severus' hands.

Arching an eyebrow, Severus read the headline. "**Vigilante Dead: Cause As Yet Undetermined**." The article went on to announce the death of one Charles Weasley. Healers within the stronghold were still attempting to define the cause, but were stymied completely. Part of him was distantly pleased by the success of his creation; he had engineered it perfectly. In such company, and publicity, as this, he could hardly give reign to the greater part that screamed at the injustice of it all. Nor could he allow that tiny academic pride to show, as it would be unwise to present himself as a target to those vigilantes as still lurked about. Instead, he simply showed the vague pleasure that any Death Eater would feel at a threat to his Lord having been eliminated.

"Should I have my girls prepare?" Madame Lareine asked lightly, and Lucius gave her a feral grin.

"I daresay you should, my good madame," he assured her. "I daresay you should."

Yes, undoubtedly there would be celebration, and Severus wondered idly if Nocturne would be repelled by his presence after his last visit. He found he was strangely affected by such a possibility, and couldn't decide if that disturbed him or not. There would be celebration, the victory of a large man over a good one, of a despot over a hero, of a dark force over a bright light. And when it was all done, he would celebrate in his own way, with the torturous reliving of memory in the darkened halls of his house.


	5. Fingerprints

**Disclaimer: As ever, I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its subsequent publishings, I just borrow them to play. I'm even a good girl and I return them when I'm done. Sort of.**

_A/N: This is getting old hat by now, but I really do love reviewers. Please?_

**Chapter Five: Fingerprints**

Madame Lareine's assumption proved astute, for all that it was a week early. There was indeed a celebration, held a full seven days later at the Syron's Lair. The Dark Lord, it seemed, did not wish to celebrate prematurely; he wanted to make very, very sure that Charlie Weasley was indeed dead. Very, very sure generally meant another body being raised to take a place of dishonor somewhere on the long frontal walls of the ministry.

Severus walked in with Lucius, nodding to the flame haired angel keeping watch at the door. As they passed through into the private dining room, he noticed a preponderance of redheads. He shrugged it off to yet another element of the madame's excellent understanding. Their victory was being celebrated over a famed member of the infamous redheaded family; every flame colored girl they saw would bring with the appreciation a subtle reminder. Her attention to detail astounded him, but he knew there was some reason, niggling at the back of his mind, why he shouldn't be surprised. It escaped him, but he knew that if he waited long enough, patiently enough, it would eventually come to him.

In a paroxysm of poor taste, Voldemort had ordered the room decorated in scarlet and gold, the only House a Weasley had ever been in. The young ladies were already assembled, surprisingly, clustered in a corner on couches and cushions. They were draped comfortably over each other, some of them openly caressing each other while they waited. It wasn't a foreign concept for a patron to request two or more of the girls, though he paid a pretty Knut for the privilege, and most of them learned very early on to overcome any natural aversions they may have had for it. Too, living and working in a brothel, no matter how high class, there is very little about the human body that can shock or repel, and the female body was little different from the male in that regard.

His eyes unconsciously sought out Nocturne, finding the raven haired beauty reclining on a dark plum cushion nearest the corner, her eyes closed as she rested her head in the lap of a sweet honey blonde. The other girl's fingers stroked through her heavy hair over and over, and Nocturne's lips were half parted in almost blissful relaxation. Looking more carefully, he could see the thin lines of tension gracing her long limbs, but even he had to strain, and he decided that it must simply be the tacky display that set her awareness to alertness.

Severus sank down into his seat at the Dark Lord's left hand, arching an eyebrow at the gold plateware. Subtlety? He no longer considered it a Slytherin trait; there were no longer enough Slytherins who knew what it meant.

"Eat," their Lord commanded them simply, gesturing to their plates. They knew better than to murmur amongst themselves, but this was a wide departure from custom. Where was the speech? The exhortation? The future plans? Where was the display of pride so justly earned?

The Potions Master was as startled as the rest, but he took care not to show, merely reaching forward to ladle the white cream sauce over the chicken breasts on his plate. He played his game, though Lucius dared a few times to talk across their silently observing Lord. He replied as succinctly as he could, and he was almost tempted to bring up the unfortunate Draco if only to silence the insufferable man, but he dared not in the presence of Voldemort. Each defection was taken personally, and never spoken of again.

He wondered idly, sometimes, when there was no chance of his thoughts being overheard by the skilled Legilimens, if his name would have continued to be spoken if he had been discovered. After all, how would one react to the defection of an Inner member? A stalwart, a foundation block of the movement and victory?

When the meal was finished, Tom Riddle rose to his feet, gesturing his most loyal followers to keep to their seats. "We have much to discuss," he announced sibilantly. "Take your pleasures as you may; we shall resume here in two hours."

Casting a judicious eye at Severus, Lucius immediately took the hand of the lavender eyed Nocturne, winking back at his old friend and rival. "I have to see what has you so captivated, old boy," he explained. "You don't mind, surely?"

Seething inwardly, Severus nonetheless made a lazy gesture that could be interpreted in any number of ways. "I have no contracts, old friend, I take my leisure as I may, as we all do." It was the truth, in its most absolute form, and yet held none of the meaning that it should. He watched his fellows file out with their selections, and he tried to decide if a distaste were present in their chosen women or if their life simply held no place for disgust. Did it truly make no difference to the girl if she bedded the ultra-handsome Lucius or the slovenly Crabbe?

"I wish you to remain here, my dour Potions Master," Voldemort instructed him, one skeletal hand twined about the blood-red hair of a doe-eyed girl that couldn't have been more than sixteen. "I have someone in mind for you, and she will come for you here."

"As you wish, my Lord," he acceded dutifully, only vaguely interested. It wasn't Nocturne; why would we care?

Alone in the room, he strolled pensively over to the piano, running his fingers over the keys. The private room was only used for the Dark Lord and for occasional bachelor/coming of age parties for young men, and while the elves took fastidious care of it, it seemed the piano was often neglected. A fine layer of dust coated the top of it behind the hanging drape of gold. He pressed his hand down into it, pulling it up and away rather than sliding it, and stared at the imprint left behind on the dark polished wood. The fingers were long and slender, thinner than they really were due to the curve of their sides. The bowl of his palm hadn't come fully into contact with the surface, leaving a small circle of dust in the center of the clean space. Albus had once commented on the beauty of his hands while preparing potions ingredients, saying that his hands held even greater grace than the rest of his body.

His gaze shifted to the hand itself, and he was vaguely aware of another presence in the room. He marked it with the barest part of his attention, alert to any change, but continued to focus on the flesh-wrapped machine of bone and tendon. There, between the first and second joint of his index finger, was the scar he'd gotten in his first year, when James Potter had caused his cauldron to explode with a well-thrown firecracker. He'd been slicing caterpillars at the time, and his knife had slipped in the chaos. In the thick webbing between forefinger and thumb was the bite from Lily Evan's cat. That encounter had proved to be their first, but by no means the last. There had been friendship, carefully hidden amidst the insults and barbs of House rivalry, but he hadn't been able to forgive her for her seeming betrayal, in dating and marrying his greatest enemy. The litany continued, a lifetime of tiny scars and mishaps visible in the map of a single hand. He didn't even turn at the sound of a throat being delicately cleared. "Yes, Madame?"

"You could at least pretend you don't know who it is," Madame Lareine answered dryly. "The Dark Lord sent me in to you; he said you would know why."

At that, he finally swiveled around to face her, black robes swirling elegantly about his ankles before they settled into their usual folds and falls. She had been surprised at some small task by the request, he assumed; her right hand was lightly splattered with pale gold ink, and a plain black quill had found its way into her twist. She was dressed in a pale gold that perfectly matched the ink, the exact shade she could pull off successfully without working against her blonde beauty. He knew, yes, why she had been sent in, or rather, _for what_ she had been sent in. Now he had only to figure out the reason, the true _why_.

"My lord?" she asked finally, her lower lip curling slightly to rest between her teeth.

He knew that gesture…where had he-He shoved the thought away as soon as it came. Granger, again. Even dead, the girl wouldn't stop harassing him. "I didn't think you served in such a capacity any longer," he murmured, silky voice crossing the distance to shiver in her ears.

She simply smiled slightly, inclining her head in deference to the skill of the seduction. "I hadn't realized that was his purpose," she agreed, understanding him immediately. "I thought perhaps you needed a recommendation, as your usual acquaintance is unavailable."

"I am not so besotted that I am incapable of performing with another, Madame."

"No man ever is."

He snorted at her cynicism, but he agreed with the principle.

Her clinging robes whispering against her, Madame Lareine came to his side, her deep blue eyes resting on the top of the piano. Silently, she placed her right hand next to the imprint of his left, leaving a much smaller disturbance when she took it away. Her hand was smaller than he would have guessed, at least next to his. It was almost dainty, yet he remembered the penknife quivering in its bed of oak and couldn't call her soft, not even in his mind.

"Why you, do you suppose?" he asked curiously.

She laughed lightly and shrugged. "Who am I to know the will of the Dark Lord? I simply do as I am bid, the same as you."

"The same?"

"I hear that our latest political victory was achieved by a most clever application of instantaneous poison," she remarked idly, her gaze measuring him thoughtfully. "There are not many who are up to brewing an entirely new poison, for such it must be to go so unrecognized by highly skilled healers."

"You put yourself in danger with your thoughts."

"That, sir, I assure you, is nothing new," she retorted dryly. "Come."

"What?"

She lifted her eyebrows, and he wondered how it was she was able to make him feel ever so slightly foolish. "If it is your wish to pleasure yourself on the dining room table, by all means, I am rather flexible, but I would prefer to give the elves room to clean before the meeting recommences?"

He nodded and followed her from the room, his mind churning rapidly. Lareine did not personally accept customers; it was an established practice of all madames. Why, then, was Voldemort so inclined to bend this custom? What did he see to gain by it?

He wasn't sure what he was expecting of Lareine's bedroom; truth be told, he really wasn't expecting anything. It wasn't something he had ever thought of. He stepped in thinking vaguely of another feminine haven of flounces and frills, but while it wasn't as bleakly practical as her office, it nonetheless put utility ahead of decadence. Soft blues and warm browns provided relaxing color, while bookshelves lined one entire wall. He could see some of the titles from the doorway, famous Potions texts, some of them rather rare. On a small counter-space between two of the shelves, a pewter cauldron held something that bubbled softly over the flames frozen in a stasis spell.

Walking over to it, he eyed the clear liquid with the sparkling appearance of champagne, then at the neat pile of shredded maiden's hair waiting next to it. "You brew your own contraceptive?"

"For all the girls," she affirmed, closing one of the books open on her table. "I don't trust anyone else's, and there is no place for children in this business."

"I think you'll find the contrary to be true, at times."

"Not in this establishment." She pursed her lips disapprovingly. "There's little else more despicable than raping a child, for that's all it is. A pre-pubescent child feels no desire, draws no sexual pleasure."

"I will say I am…surprised," he said, voice wrapping about her words of a month previous. At her puzzled expression, he indicated the books and the cauldron.

Her laughter gave a warmth to the room. "Did you think I wished always to be a whore?" For the first time, her smile was completely free of artifice, giving reign to its mocking light. "No, Lord Snape, I had goals once, and upon finding myself unable to reach them, I turned to the only alternative left to me."

"You wanted to be a Potions Mistress."

"I did."

"What happened?"

She shrugged, continuing to put away her materials until the table was empty. She pulled a candle from a nightstand drawer, setting it in the center and lighting it with a whispered word. "I failed." She smiled crookedly. "Circumstances were not my friend, at the time, and that is all I will say on the matter."

The room plunged into darkness, relieved only by the flickering candle on the table. It cast its unsteady light back onto her, illuminating the shadows of her face.

He paced across the room and gently pulled the quill from her hair, letting the fading blonde locks tumble down in heavy waves. He could see thin strands of silver, but he knew that he could not be any older than he, so he wasn't unduly bothered. The quill twisted in his fingers, one nail running along the spine.

"I remind you of someone."

It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway. "No. And yes," he allowed a moment later.

Her hands working at her back, she undid the clasp and allowed her pale gold robes to slither to the ground; she was nude underneath. She may have been a fading beauty, but she hadn't lost anything yet. She was full-figured, almost Rubenesque, breasts hanging heavy and full. "I hear there were a number of girls at Hogwarts over the years who had naughty little fantasies about their Potions professor," she teased him. "Was there ever any truth to those rumors?"

He smirked in spite of himself, reaching out to brush her hair off of one shoulder. "I would be the last to know then, wouldn't I?"

Lareine stepped into him, her hands sliding along his side to rest lightly against his back. She didn't say anything for a long moment, then suddenly turned around to put her back against his chest. "Did you never think of your students in such a manner?"

"Never," he answered almost honestly, pushing back the memory of the one time he'd accidentally held-no. She was dead, and had reviled him at any rate. The curves had been much the same, his mind whispered, unwilling to let the reminiscence die. She hadn't been a student any longer, that damnable little voice added.

Lareine allowed him the lie; it wasn't that important. She ground herself slowly back against him, could feel him respond even as she knew it was only physical. The act held no joy for her any longer, no release, but she would do what she had to do, as she had always done. She'd proven extremely resourceful through her life, always emerging from her own ashes to become more successful than before. This would be no different than any number of previous trysts, but that she would at least be spared the trial of whispering endearments. Here, at least, was a man who understood the mechanics of the game as well as she.

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Severus fastened the clasp on the back of the pale gold robes, smoothing the blonde hair carefully away to make sure it didn't get caught in it. Lareine turned to thank him, stopped dead by a shrill alarm sounding sourcelessly in her chambers. "What is that?" he asked sharply.

"One of the girls," she snapped, already flying to the door in a flurry of fabric. He followed after her, two shapes moving silently through the many levels of the house like avenging angels. They found Nocturne's door open, coming to a halt just in time to see Lucius Malfoy fly out and hit the far wall of the corridor. Thanatos emerged a half second later, slamming into the aristocrat.

Lucius had rarely been at a disadvantage through his entire life, but he found himself in the rather unenviable position of having the bodyguard's wand at his throat, and his knife at his groin. The mere appearance of the other man would have been enough to discomfit him, however. Thanatos was tall and broad shouldered, firmly muscled and yet not large. Long platinum blonde hair, a shade or two paler even than Lucius' own, fell to his waist. Ice grey eyes stared at him malevolently, and he couldn't help but feel it was the shade of his traitorous son exacting its own kind of vengeance.

"Thanatos!"

The bodyguard's eyes didn't waver from his victim.

Lareine swept forward, laying one hand on his quivering arm. "Thanatos, what happened? Is Nocturne all right?" At his brief not, she hurried into the room.

Severus leaned against the doorjamb and arched a brow at his friend. "Trouble, Lucius?"

"Get him off me, Severus!" he gurgled, but even that was quickly cut off with further pressure by Thanatos' wand.

"I enjoy my releases where I receive them, old friend," Severus told him apologetically. "I do not know what you have done, but I do not wish to lose my own privileges to the establishment."

Lareine returned to the door way, her eyes flashing furiously. "Rest assured, Lord Malfoy, I will be speaking with your Master over this," she ground out. "I would suggest you return to the dining room for the duration, and Merlin help you if you touch a single one of my girls."

The four stood in silence, finally broken by Lareine's unwilling chuckle. "Thanatos, that does mean you'll have to release him."

Summoned by the same siren that had alerted the madame, two hulking bruisers barreled up the stairs. Only then did the menacing mirror let the blond man go. They took him firmly by the arms, dragging him along behind them, and Severus had little doubt that they would see to Madame Lareine's decree.

The madame gave him a brief, inscrutable look and swept past him, her footsteps ringing on the stairs.

Thanatos and Severus stared at each other for a long moment, and Thanatos grunted lowly. Severus wasn't sure if this constituted as permission, but he took it as a good sign that he wasn't stopped from following the bodyguard into the room.

Nocturne lay huddled against the wall, shielded only by her glorious blue-black curls. She peered out from the shelter, lavender eyes widening slightly at the sight of the Potions Master. She relaxed barely into her companion's embrace, her attention still focused on the dark man standing in her room.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, wondering why he was genuinely concerned.

She nodded, a bare inclination of her head. She and Thanatos shared a look that he couldn't even begin to decipher.

His lip curling in disgust, Thanatos left her side and retreated to his room off to the side, leaving the pair of them alone.

Closing the door to give himself time to think, Severus tried to puzzle through the odd play being performed around him. He didn't know the lines, but he was beginning to think that not many others did either, and that was bizarrely comforting in a way. He knelt down by the trembling young woman, gently brushing her hair away from her face. "Are you all right?" he asked again.

Her response was stronger this time, and he saw a flash of something when her neck was briefly exposed. He took her chin in hand and slowly forced her head back, staring at the marks that marred the pale column of her throat. They were just starting to purple, but already they could be clearly defined into four slender fingerprints, the short thumb on the other side. "He did this?" he snarled, and she stroked a hand along his jaw, calming him.

It was a risk they took, these girls, for some men were violent enough that even loss of rights could not curb their darker lusts. Her bodyguard and companion had flown to her defense as soon as the signal charm sounded, but it could not prevent the bruises. There would be balm later, she knew, and there was always the long tradition of glamour charms. It worked to cover a school girl's hickeys; it would work to cover a prostitute's bruises. At least she had long experience with that.

She was stunned when his arms came around her, hugging her to him in an entirely asexual manner. "I'll kill him."

She shook her head, thinking quickly, and clenched her hands in his velvet robes. Twisting in his arms, she pressed her lips against the pulse racing a frantic tattoo in his throat, feeling his shudder beneath her touch. His hands smoothed over her neck, as if he could will away the bruises with a word or a wish, continuing their progress down her body until she was writhing soundlessly against him, knuckles white against the black fabric she clutched to keep her grounded. She came undone, and while she quaked with release, he buried his face in her dark hair, inhaling the scent of lavender and heather.

Nocturne looked up at him with wondering eyes when she recovered, and he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss at the corner of her mouth, far enough to be a dangerous safety.

"I must go," he whispered. "But I'll return, if I may."

She nodded and threaded her fingers through his hair, tucking it securely back behind his ear. He hadn't had time to re-braid it after the interlude with Lareine, but then, a certain dishevelment was only to be expected in such a house.

He lifted her up and placed her gently on the bed, dropping a kiss on her pale forehead. A single knock on the far inner door brought the blond Thanatos to it in an instant, his grey eyes dark with suspicion. "Take care of her," he ordered, knowing even as it escaped his mouth that it was a stupid thing to say. Thanatos merely nodded, watching the Potions Master leave the room.

He looked across to his ward, whose eyes cut sharply to the chess board. He shook his head, making no move to change the order of the pieces.

Severus was not the last to enter the room, but with Lucius' seething presence, he certainly wasn't the first either. He said nothing to the other man, not even to torment him; after all, one never knew when the Dark Lord would enter, and it was better to be safe than to give in to the fleeting satisfaction. When Voldemort did return, his vermillion eyes went immediately to Malfoy, and that gaze promised nothing good.

Lucius shivered despite himself.

"Sit."

All the assembled Death Eaters did so, and if Lucius sat a little farther away from their Lord than usual, those few that noticed were smart enough not to say anything about it.

"We have secured the downfall of Charlie Weasley, and his body is even now on its way to me," he told them. "However. That pocket of resistance still remains, and we must find out who its new leaders are. I have spies in their midst, and look forward to receiving a report at any hour now, but we must not cease our efforts. With that fall of the Ural vigilantes, Russia will follow, for they look to the mountains for their example. Dolohov, how are your contacts making out there?"

Startled to be directly addressed, Antonin Dolohov carefully came up with an answer, hoping it was fast enough to please his Lord. "They are making strong progress, Lord," he replied respectfully. "Many of the villages are already swayed by your power and your promises; it will be only the cities that resist, and will not stand without their mountain heroes."

Voldemort's face scrunched distastefully at the use of the word 'heroes', but he let it lie unpunished. "We must double our efforts there, so that we may-"

The door to the dining room flew open, and thirteen men rose to their feet with wands in hand before any of them could even blink. A thin, almost emaciated man in ragged robes ignored the dozen, his terror and attention saved for the Dark Lord alone.

"Ah, Andrei," the reptilian man greeted expansively. "You have news for us then?"

The Inner Circle slowly put away their wands and reclaimed their seats at their Lord's example.

The man nodded jerkily, eyes wild and bloodshot. "My Lord, I have seen their new leaders, and came straightaway to tell you. It is Harry Potter, Lord!" The entire room rose in a tumult, but he continued on, scared beyond reason and knowing only that he had this one chance to tell what he knew before his probable death. "With the younger Weasley bitch handfast at his side! It is not Polyjuice, my Lord, I observed them too carefully, and they took no potions, and glamours would have worn off in less time than I often saw them. I swear to you it is Potter, my Lord, and they say he was the true leadership behind his whore's brother, allowing Weasley to be the figurehead to keep his own existence secret. My Lord, I swear to you!" he cried piteously, collapsing in a heap.

"Hush," Voldemort commanded absently, and Severus raised an eyebrow. His red eyes narrowed at the unfortunate man as he thought. "You cannot go back to them now, but you will return to the region to be a contact with the others. Do not disappoint me, Andrei."

The man gulped, shocked senseless by the unexpected mercy, and he nodded shook his head fiercely, crawling backwards out of the room.

Silence hung heavy in the room, and they all, Severus included, flinched as Voldemort's fist came crashing down on the table. "How is this possible?!" he roared. "Their bodies hung on my gates for months!"

"It must be a lookalike," Claudius Parkinson suggested deferentially. "The boy was examined meticulously when his body was captured. They are rallying around a false Potter in hopes that the world will prove gullible." He swallowed hard, but relaxed somewhat when his Master slowly nodded.

"Yes, that must be it," he said, more to himself than to his accomplices. "Still, he must be gotten rid of, and we cannot rely on the same method twice. They will be looking for it now. You, Parkinson, will find a way to discredit this golem. And you had best do it soon. Severus!"

"My Lord?"

"Just how many Weasleys are there, anyway?" he demanded with a trace of grim humor.

"There were nine, my Lord," he answered promptly. "The parents, as well as four of the sons, all hung on the walls. Charlie will soon arrive in his coffin, the girl seems to be alive and at the imposter's side, and Percy served you as a minor, and unwitting, aide. He has since been executed." The steam of his chamomile tea wafted up to his sensitive nostrils and he forced aside the frequent memory of Molly waiting for him with a fresh pot of tea in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place when he was out at meetings and revels. Never mind what time he came back, there she was, asking no questions and simply healing whatever small wounds he allowed her to see. "The girl, Ginevra, was never found after the final battle; she, my Lord, could indeed be legitimate, as her brother was. Her presence will lend weight to the imposter."

"Yes, I remember Ginevra well," he murmured. While allowing Lucius to torture Arthur Weasley to death, he had extracted all the man's memories of his precious daughter's encounter with the diary. He had wanted to know how his horcrux had been shattered, and witnessed the memories over and over until he could clearly recall every detail. "You will need to see to her as well, Parkinson. I don't care how, so long as it's done."

Every other man in the room pitied Parkinson his hopeless cause; it had taken them over a year to strike at Charlie Weasley, but the Dark Lord was running out of patience.

"Get out," the Dark Lord hissed, sinking down into his chair. "All of you."

Most scattered as soon as he had finished the sound, but for Lucius, who was pinned by his furious gaze, and Severus, who took the time to bow respectfully before leaving at his normal, stately pace. He paused outside the doorway.

"Now, Lucius, what is this the good Madame tells me of your behaviour with one of her girls?"

Severus smirked maliciously and headed up the many flights of stairs, knocking on the simple white door he'd come to love and loathe. Nocturne opened it, her eyes searching his questioningly. The strange and troubling news rose to his mind and he quashed it violently, determined not to relive it. He cupped her cheek, his hand stretching from her jaw past her temple, his fingertips resting against the silky hair.

She gave him that mysterious, enigmatic smile and turned away from him, walking across the room to sit at the piano. So entranced was he by the promise of her seductive music, that balm which gave him easy rest, he didn't even notice that she moved a piece on the chessboard when she passed it. Now, where the white knight had previously stood surrounded by all but one of the remaining pawns, two rooks stood in its place, occupying the square together. If he had, he might have commented on the oddity; he was a great fan of chess, often playing it against Albus in those slower years before Voldemort's initial throes of return, and certainly he had never heard of a legal move that involved multiple pieces on one square.

Severus Snape, however, hadn't noticed a thing, and he followed her like a lamb to slaughter, standing behind her, his elegant, deadly hands resting on her shoulders as she summoned pure magic from the taut strings of the instrument.


	6. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. There's a lot that I don't own, actually. Figure it out for yourself.**

_A/N: As always, please review. Reviews feed the muse, which means things get written faster._

**Chapter Six: Down the Rabbit Hole**

Ginny Weasley stretched luxuriously in the bed, completely comfortable in her own skin despite the scars that wrapped viciously across her abdomen to trail onto her freckled back. She'd had five years to become accustomed to them, and not many people saw them at any rate. Her arms folded behind her head as she looked across the room to the young man sitting at the table, quill moving swiftly across a parchment. "What are you doing?" she asked through a yawn.

"Marking out Italy," he answered, ruffling a hand through his messy black hair. "The latest report includes a few new appearances, and I want to make sure nothing accidentally doubles."

She slid from the bed and crossed the room, one hand resting on his shoulder as she read the report. "It seems to be favorable thus far," she noted, fingers lightly traveling up to toy idly with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Come to bed, love. You're exhausted."

Sighing, he set down the quill and massaged strongly at his temples, burying his face in his hands. "How much longer is this going to go on, Gin?"

"As long as it needs to," she told him firmly. She pulled his chair away from the table with arms strengthened by years of the manual labor even witches needed to use to survive against tall odds. Settling herself in his lap, she turned his face to her, meeting emerald eyes rimmed red in exhaustion. "We are going to keep fighting until we are dead or victorious, and that is all there is to it."

"My entire life-"

"_Our_ entire lives," she corrected. "_Our_ entire lives have been spent in near constant warfare, yes, but we can't give up. Not now. Not ever. Too much depends on this."

When the knock sounded on the door, he moved with pure reflex to wrap his robes around her, shielding her nudity. Simultaneously, they pulled their wands and aimed them at the innocuous piece of heavy wood. "Who's there?" he demanded sharply.

"Is Dobby, sir," a squeaky voice answered. "Dobby is bearing message for Harry Potter, sir."

The pair inside the room relaxed only slightly, the redhead casting a useful charm that turned the door invisible in one direction. By all appearances, it _seemed_ like Dobby, but they could never be too careful. "Tell us what we need to know, Dobby," she ordered.

The long ears drooped slightly as they always did when he was required to give the password; the house-elf wasn't accustomed to validating himself, for all the time that had passed. For some reason, it went against the nature of his service, but it was either that or not be allowed to serve at all; he judged the password the lesser of two evils. "Second star to the right," he mumbled in his high pitched voice, and the door swung open.

"What is it, Dobby?" the young man asked gently, left hand rising to stroke his companion's back under the enveloping robes.

The house-elf held out a sheet of parchment, folded only once and without a seal. His master took it and ran his wand along the charmed opening, releasing the lock with his magical signature. Reading it quickly, he impatiently brushed his hair away from his face, fingers grazing the famed lightning bolt scar. It was only one of many now, yet he knew that none of them would ever bring as much notice as the one gracing his forehead. His hair had always been long to cover it, to conceal it, to pretend to be normal as much as possible, but Ginny had convinced him to keep at least the face unobstructed. It was a symbol, she had said, and symbols were important to people who didn't know what was going on.

He made a face and passed her the sheet, resting his head in the curve of her shoulder. She had been rather short when they'd first met, but then, so had he. She had grown a great deal when she was seventeen and eighteen, almost reaching his own lanky height. It made such simple embraces and gestures a great deal easier to pull off.

"Interesting," she commented simply, and he snorted.

Interesting, indeed. Dobby left the room, sealing the door tightly behind him, knowing that he would be summoned if he was needed. He didn't like the arrangement much, didn't like not having a home to keep for his master, but he believed the great wizard when he said it would come about someday. He would wait. After all, it was a house-elf's lot.

The letter had come a long way to be delivered, flown by owl from the smoky streets of London to wing its way deep into the Ural Mountains. It didn't say anything they couldn't have guessed already, but confirmation was good. Confirmation was always good; guesses led to mistakes.

As if divining the path of his thoughts, the redhead in his lap chuckled darkly. "Constant Vigilance."

He snorted again. It wasn't very dignified, but it seemed appropriate at the very least. "So we know they'll be making an attempt when they can."

"And we know that it won't be poison." She frowned, undoing the buttons on his shirt to run her hands over his chest. "Why should that be?"

"They've already tried it," he explained, closing his eyes. "They know we'll be looking for it now, so they'll have to try something else, something we won't be expecting."

"Poor Charlie," she said softly.

He stroked her face, softly kissing her neck. "He volunteered, love. We couldn't keep him from that."

"I know. It doesn't mean I won't miss him."

"There'd be something wrong with you if you didn't."

She didn't cry, but then, she hadn't cried in a very long time. Not since that dreadful day when she'd woken up to find that she was still alive when so many others weren't. Even when Charlie ate the poisoned meal, knowing it was his last, she hadn't shed a tear. She'd pretended convincingly at the small memorial the rebels had held for him before allowing his body to be stolen by one of the omnipresent spies, but they hadn't been real, and they both knew it. He wasn't sure if she would weep again one day. Perhaps when it was all finished. Perhaps when their minds no longer had to travel immediately on to the next plot or insurrection, when they could remember what it felt like to be human. Perhaps then, she would weep again.

"Do you think Snakeface is frustrated?"

He brushed a finger against his scar, feeling the energy tingling furiously. He'd become accustomed to it over time, learned to adjust to the sensations that never quite went away. "He's frustrated, and very, very confused."

"Hmm." They didn't speak of the other plans being set into motion. They knew the spies were lurking, knew that even in their private quarters nothing was safe. They lived in a labyrinth of lies and intrigue, where secrets couldn't exist and yet nothing else existed. Those plans would come to fruition in their own time; talking them over was a risk without reward.

He captured her mouth with his, kissing her sweetly, and she melted against him. The map of Italy could wait. Standing and carrying her back over to the bed, he laughed silently; it seemed they would be giving their hidden observers another show, but he couldn't care less. There was no such thing as privacy, and his time with her was too precious to waste on such a foolish concept as modesty. Loving her was the one light in an increasingly dark world, and he was determined that nothing would extinguish it.

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Severus was walking with Lucius again.

He really couldn't avoid it anymore; after all, his excursions to Nocturne had brought him increasingly out into the world. So he walked through the streets with Lucius, invented reasons why they shouldn't go to the manor to allow the incessantly weeping Narcissa to drape over him inconsolably, and allowed himself to be treated to meals. Lucius was eager to pay, and money was certainly no consequence. Severus felt as if they had traveled back years, to the time when Lucius had originally been courting him to the Dark Lord's service.

They had almost succeeded in passing the Syron's Lair when Lucius suddenly stopped, compelling Severus to cease as well. He nearly groaned when he identified the girl at the door as Nocturne. Five days had passed, but he hadn't seen the bruises since that first unguarded moment, and he wasn't sure if it was by balm or by bewitchment.

The blond aristocrat had been seething about his graceless ejection from the house. Their Lord had upheld Madame Lareine's right to choose her patrons, and while he had requested of her the concession that Lucius be allowed in the dining room for meetings, he had not interceded on the more pleasurable aspects that were now restricted. There would be no companionship at the Lair for Lucius.

Lareine had looked as smug as a cat with cream.

Nocturne turned vivid lavender eyes upon both men as they came near, utterly unperturbed by the threat shrieking out from every line of tension in Lucius. She didn't smile, didn't twitch, didn't give any sign other than her attention that she had noticed them at all.

"Well, Severus, it seems your pet is out here all alone and unprotected."

The Potions Master could see a barely lighter shadow coming from the recesses of the alcove but made no comment, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning against the opposite wall.

The elegant silver tipped cane rose and caressed the prostitute's jaw, the fangs of the serpent scratching lightly at her delicate, pale skin. "Don't you know it's dangerous for young girls to be on their own?" he crooned.

Severus smirked into one hand, watching the surprise on Lucius' face when the aristocrat was grabbed roughly. Strong arms immediately trapped the man's hands behind him, the wand dropping from nerveless fingers. Even his legs were useless, Thanatos' long limb coming between them and over one foot, ready to scissor him to the ground as soon as it should become necessary. It seemed it was dangerous for little boys to be on their own, too.

Nocturne and Thanatos shared a swift look. She slid off her stool, slender wand falling from her sleeve into her hand in a smooth gesture. She walked close to the captive Lucius, her breath ghosting over his neck and one hand resting lightly against his chest. Her wide eyes turned to Severus, never wavering from his as her lips moved in a silent spell.

He didn't recognize it from the movements of her lips, but whatever it was, Lucius certainly wasn't happy with it. From the way he doubled over, released from Thanatos' hands, it was probably something highly unpleasant and centered around the groin, of which Lucius had always been inordinately proud. Thanatos watched the aristocrat stagger away, his sculpted face set in grim satisfaction.

Severus didn't tear his eyes away from Nocturne to watch his friend lurch off, but then, neither did she; through the spell, through the retreat, she trained her unreadable gaze on him. He wasn't sure if it was a warning or not, but he certainly didn't intend to do anything drastic to earn her ire. The serenity of her expression hadn't changed for a single second in the entire encounter, and that unsettled him perhaps more than anything else.

All three heads turned when the doors opened and a blonde head poked out. "Is there a problem?" Madame Lareine inquired dryly, and three heads moved in the negative. She looked at each of them in turn, not believing them for a moment, and pursed her lips in a thin, disapproving line. "Mmhmm."

Completely unexpectedly, Nocturne offered her a sweet, thoroughly insincere smile, and the madame laughed without reservation.

"Devious," she chided playfully. She turned her eyes back to the silent Potions Master. "Lord Snape, might I have a word with you?"

Surprised, he nodded before he could think better of it, and silently cursed the years of pseudo-peace that had dulled his reflexes. He inclined his head briefly to both Thanatos and Nocturne as he made his way through the doors into the establishment.

Deep red robes swirling elegantly about her ankles, Lareine led him directly to her private quarters, where the contraceptive still bubbled on its cauldron against one wall. He wasn't sure what she wanted, but he approved of the instinctive way she checked the potion before doing anything else. It was the instinct that separated a decent Potions maker from a true artist of the field. His former profession as a teacher wouldn't allow him to take less than pride in that, even if he hadn't taught her.

"Please, sit," she invited him, gesturing him to a carved wooden chair set at the small table sagging under her private notes. "You are, perhaps, wondering why we're not in my office?"

"I would not presume to know the inner workings of the female mind," he murmured, sinking down onto the hard surface.

She let that pass without comment. "The Dark Lord seems pleased that you have formed an attachment," she informed with neither preamble nor tact. "He wishes, however, that it be to me, rather than to one of my girls, as I am off limits to your brothers. If you are in my chambers rather than my office, it will allow him to draw conclusions more favorable to himself than to anyone else involved."

"And this is what you wish to tell me?"

"No." She threw a rolled up newspaper at him, picking up a quill and letting it twirl slowly in her fingers as she paced steadily about the room. "Read."

His black eyes focused on the newspaper and an instant scowl darkened his face. "I can't read Spanish," he snapped, hating to admit any deficiency in his knowledge.

She seemed utterly unfazed by his snarking. "One of the girls who trained with me once upon a time in Paris went on to make her way in Madrid," she explained. "It seems she recently had a rather famous guest at her establishment, and felt that I might need to know about it. She sent me the paper."

"I fail to see how this has any-"

"Page eleven."

Mystified, and more than a little irked, Severus turned to the indicated page and nearly choked. There, reclining on a couch and smiling shyly towards the camera, two beauties draped across and against him, sat the bane of his teaching existence. The face was no longer round and chubby, but it was too strong, the bones standing out in high prominence without the baby fat to soften them. But, it was undeniably, unaccountably, the single worst potions maker it had ever been his misfortune to encounter in over twenty years of teaching.

But how?

He'd personally seen him die, seen the Killing Curse that took all breath and life away. How was it even possible that it could be Neville Longbottom?!

"Polyjuice?" he asked without thinking, and the madame shook her head, still pacing slowly.

"Longer than an hour; he paid three times the normal outrageous fees, taking both girls for double the time. Both girls swore under Oath that he hadn't touched a drop to drink in the entire time."

"Glamour?"

"Not allowed in her establishment. It seems they had a problem a few years back with a gang of criminals sneaking in under glamours. They eluded capture for months, and finally only got caught because the glamour of one of them slipped with taking his pleasure with the girls. Italian law now prohibits the use of any glamour in a brothel, unless it is directly related to the business transaction, i.e. role-playing, etc."

She sounded like she was quoting a bloody book.

He stared down at the picture, trying to wrap his mind around the impossibility. "Why are you telling me this?"

Her pale blue eyes met his thoughtfully. "The Dark Lord wishes to see us attached; let him believe it to be so, and let him believe that I am willing to pass along information to you. If you pass it along to him, you rise even further in his favor, perhaps even gaining over the falling Lucius, if you play your cards right."

"And why would I wish to 'play my cards right'?" he sneered, tossing down the paper and spreading his hands expansively. "I have my rewards. Why should I wish for more?"

"How like a man, to go only for the apple and miss the rest of the tree. I said rise in favor, not in consequence. The Dark Lord's favor is never a useless thing to have."

"Yet you wish for me to pursue it more actively. To what cause?"

She trailed her fingers over a heavy brass bookend on a half-filled shelf. It was in the shape of a castle tower, battlements rising in even spokes on the crown. She moved it slightly to the side, as one would a rook on a chessboard, running the pad of the digit over the space to make sure there was no dust for it to disturb. She shook her head, facing away from him to study the figure. "Causes are for men. I follow only the game."

"And what game is that?"

Finally, she turned to him, her face as unfathomable and unknowable as the girl guarding the outer door of the building. "I require an audience, yes, but not an active one," she said, smiling slightly. "I wish for you to appreciate the subtlety of my play; you cannot do that if you expect everything in advance."

The odd pair sat in silence for a long time, the only sound in the room that of the softly bubbling cauldron. The barest of smirks tugged at his thin lips as he held up the paper. "Might I borrow this?"

"Naturally."

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"Severus! This is a surprise!"

Bowing deeply, the dark haired man searched his Lord's tone for disapproval, which would possibly be followed by short and severe bursts of pain, but he couldn't find anything but honest astonishment. "Forgive me for interrupting your day, my Lord, but Miss Sigurdson said you had a few minutes free?"

Voldemort waved a thin, scaly hand at the secretary hovering anxiously in the doorway. "Of course, of course. Ingrid, Severus is to be shown in whenever he comes to visit us."

The young woman nodded and bobbed a curtsey, quickly retreating to the relative safety of her desk in the anteroom.

"Whatever brings you here, Severus?" the despot inquired, long fingers crossing over his chest. "It's not about that boon, is it?"

Severus wasn't even about to tread that dangerous path. "No, my Lord. I happened across some information which I felt I should immediately make known to you." He waited for the Dark Lord to show an interest in it before resuming, and found it in the slight widening of the vermillion eyes that equaled his own eyebrow raise. "A friend of Madame Lareine's reported that Neville Longbottom patronized her establishment a few days ago," he reported, laying the paper out on the desk, open to the picture. "As you may recall, Longbottom was a student of mine, and a good friend to the Gol-"

"Yes, yes, of course," Voldemort snapped, staring at the picture. "Severus, how is this-"

"I know not, my Lord," he answered honestly, tensing himself for the curses that were sure to come. "I questioned Madame Lareine, but she assures me it is impossible for it to be either Polyjuice or glamour. I saw Bellatrix kill him, and yet…" he gestured eloquently to the paper.

"How is it possible for the dead to rise from their very graves?" the tyrant whispered, and Severus took the fleeting satisfaction and tucked it away for safer perusal at a later point. He had harbored suspicions that his master, like so many emperors and conquerors through time, would be extremely superstitious. He wondered idly if he could get a hag to natter on about Dunsinane Hill, filing that thought away in the locked portions of his mind before cautiously raising his head to observe the shaken creature before him. "We have seen them dead, and here they stand to condemn us."

With the flash of insight that had saved his neck more than once in his time as double agent and all-around spy, Severus understood that there had to be more to it. "My Lord, has aught else arisen?"

For answer, another newspaper was thrust into his face, though he could read this one. It was written in French, and the front page picture was a silver-haired beauty with hard eyes, standing before a crowd of hundreds and exciting them into passion. He noticed that many of the men in the frame had a slightly glazed look to their faces, and surmised that the young woman must be part Veela; such a thing was surprisingly common in France. He skimmed through the article, his trained mind instantly picking up the most pertinent details.

Her name was given by witnesses as Gabrielle Delacour, younger sister of the martyred Fleur Delacour-Weasley, and fierce warrior in her own right. She'd addressed a crowd outside of Nice, inciting them against the regime supporting Voldemort, speaking to their passions and their lust. The riot that had followed had been monumental; even another bloody American winning the Tour de France wouldn't have caused such a row. When the dust had settled, nearly two hundred lay dead in the streets and square, millions of Galleons of damage had been caused to the properties, another four hundred languished in prison, and the quarter-Veela had disappeared. Should she be caught, and it took all of Severus' self-control not to snort at the mere idea of it, she would be killed instantly, but he didn't doubt for a moment that she would be too skilled to be caught.

He remembered dealing with the sisters at Order meetings, and he'd been almost frightened of the younger. She had all of her sister's skill with men and then some, but lacked Fleur's flair for histrionics, instead displaying a cool and callous intellect that rivaled any Slytherin. She would wreak havoc in France, where the ideal of beauty was ingrained in their very blood. If there was one thing Voldemort was not, and there were many to choose from, beautiful was certainly near the top of that list. She had been missing since the Final Battle.

Well, she certainly wasn't missing any longer.

He set the paper down carefully beside the other, his mind flying through courses and possibilities. There were so many options available, but he had to think quickly, had to decide which to take, which to follow. Finally, he knelt before his master, hair falling forward to expose the pale skin at the nape of his neck. "My lord, I beg you to allow me to contact some former acquaintances of mine across Europe. Perhaps they will be able to find out something more concrete, in a way that will not alert these rebel fools in the same way police and Aurors will."

A thin hand rested atop his slightly greasy hair in a dark benediction. "Go then, my dour Potions Master. Have your friends strain their eyes and ears, but do not come to me without something."

Nodding, Severus rose gracefully to his feet and swept another deep bow, leaving the room deep in thought. He'd have to see just how far his unconventional ally could extend her web of information. It seemed he was headed back to the Syron's Lair, for something far more pleasurable than anything else he could find there.

Well, almost anything, he amended, lavender eyes staring at him from his memory.

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Over the next few weeks, Severus took a perverse delight in watching more and more reports file in. Pictures, newspapers, even letters were delivered to fill in the gap of information, but not even they could help to explain how the dead and missing came to take the rocky stage of world attention. His foreign contacts had been busy, but they could offer no solutions; they were as baffled as the general populace.

He set down his copies of the original French and Spanish daily journals, spreading the others out across the large dining room table. He hadn't used it once since buying the estate, and it was amusing to have its first duty be in the course of supporting treason, as it were. Translation spells, painstakingly applied to each paragraph at a tie, had given him more details, and he went over them each day.

The rebels left Africa alone, but then, so had Voldemort. The sub-continent held too much old magic, the deepest jungles radiating darkness that even the famed Dark Lord didn't dare to touch. The north of Africa looked to Europe and the Middle East; the rest of the land mass was left to its own devices.

Neville Longbottom and Gabrielle Delacour had been marked and watched, yet no slip or inconsistency had yet appeared. Well, other than Longbottom being alive when Severus' own eyes declaimed him dead; that was an inconsistency. Longbottom seemed content merely to be seen in highly public places. He didn't engage in Delacour's deliberate rabble-rousing, so there was not yet a body count in Spain as there was in France.

Yet, they were not alone. Compatriots had begun popping up all over the world, crawling out of the woodwork, some speaking out, some simply baffling others with their mere existence. The missing Michael Corner, formerly of Dumbledore's Army, had arrived in the United States of America. In a bold move, he had begun campaigning all through the American wizarding populating. Elections were a year away for the nation, and he was actively speaking against the neutrality of the current executive. He'd had dual citizenship because of his other, and was truly a brilliant choice for such an endeavor. Corner was striking a very careful balance in reaching out to the Americans; he didn't call them to war, not yet, but he emphasized the horrors in a manner that called to their deepest sympathies. Yanks liked to think of themelves as the moral saviours of the world, and he was handing them that opportunity.

Cho Chang, who had died even before the final battle, had appeared in China. She didn't speak for herself, but allowed others to use her as a model, an iconic figurehead against the suffering the populous nation had worked so hard to overcome. Riots would begin, but she'd be there with tearful eyes and pleading words, calming them until they praised her for preserving peace and life. She was ensuring that the huge nation would take up no arms on England's behalf, something the Dark Lord was rather depending upon when it came time to conquer Asia.

Working directly against Antonin Dolohov in Russia, Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke with a deep voice and an unruffled demeanor. Severus had _liked_ Kingsley; the man had always given him quiet faith, tactfully placing himself between Severus and Mad-Eye Moody. Kingsley had been on the wall between Minerva and Arthur.

Blaise Zabini, one of the prides of his House, had been brought to their side by Draco. The urbane, light-skinned black was now in Italy, his ruined left leg supported by an elegant cane not unlike Lucius'. He punctured all of Britain's propaganda with dry, witty comments. Italy was laughing at the Dark Lord, and it wouldn't be long before they shut out the Death Eaters entirely.

And yet, it didn't even stop there. Parvati Patil was sweeping through her native India, shrieking poison against the murderers of her sister. His rational mind rejected that; it was Parvati who had died, Padma who had been left alone, but the pictures clearly showed the more angular face of the Gryffindor twin.

And, of course, hidden deep within the Ural Mountains, the dead Harry Potter and the missing Ginny Weasley proved they were neither dead nor missing, giving the ignorant masses a face to have faith in. They made themselves living symbols, walking, talking representations of what it was to stand against tyranny.

He sifted through each picture, matching the faces and bodies against his memory. Though none of them wore the uniforms to which he was accustomed, it wasn't hard to see the changes. They were all thinner, leaner, their eyes harder and colder. Gone were the fresh-faced smiles and laughter of their school days. They'd been replaced with the casual implacability of seasoned warriors, the grim laughter of people who no longer found anything funny.

His black eyes fell again on the picture of Ginny Weasley. She was the last of her family left alive, or so it seemed, the seventh child and only daughter of an ancient line. She had incredible power, and had far surpassed her brothers in being able to control and harness it. A fine smattering of freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, spider-webs of thin scars peeking between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her skirt. His instinct told him that the key to unraveling the puzzle would be in figuring her out. That same shadowy prompting told him that she was real; who else was real remained to be seen.

Why did they have no one in England?

Frowning, he pulled a sheet towards him and read the different locations. No, they hadn't made any attempts to influence the despot's stronghold, perhaps because the chance of getting caught was so much higher.

Perhaps….

He didn't fully believe that, though. These former students were playing a dangerous game, and they were playing it too well to be careless. Not many would see the caution in avoiding London as a carelessness, but he knew it wasn't enough to stir up trouble overseas if you didn't have a plot in the works at home. When had these mostly lackluster students learned such genius? No one knew what was going on, so truly, anything could be happening.

His hand fell upon the photo of Michael Corner. He was dressed in a black three piece suit popular amongst Muggle politicians, a deep burgundy tie giving some color against the crisp white shirt. His expression was grave and filled with purpose, yet there was something else to it, as well. He might almost have called it smugness, the same triumphant gleam that he'd seen in the pale blue eyes of Madame Lareine.

The memory of the Potions Master was truly an astounding thing. It was not photographic, not instantaneous, but it was nearly perfect. The breadth of what he could easily recall was staggering, and he _never_ forgot a student. He didn't have to check the old Hogwarts yearbooks to _know_ these students were who they claimed to be, yet he _knew_ that half of them were physical impossibilities.

Sighing, he shook his head and got up from the table. This wasn't an enigma to be solved in a single day, and while it was fascinating, it was something he could bear to set aside. He needed some air.

Severus Apparated to the extended Knockturn Alley, deciding to head into Flourish and Blotts. The bookstore had been left alone in the midst of the uproar, only a few changes marking the shift of power. He didn't think it would be long before the store was filled once ore with gossiping students. The Dark Lord was actively working to rebuild and re-open his alma mater.

Entering the store, Severus inhaled the slightly musty smell of books. It was one of his favorite smells. Even as a child, whenever his mother gave him a new book, the first thing he did was bring the cover to his sensitive nose. He walked automatically towards the potions section, stopping at the end of the aisle when he heard two feminine voices.

One he recognized immediately as the low, musical tone of Madame Lareine. The other took him a half-second longer, but she snickered in a tittering fall, and he could identify her as Pansy Parkinson. The frown returned as he tried to understand what these two women could be doing together.

Parkinson no longer, he recollected suddenly. She'd been wed last year to Goyle Junior as a reward for the loyalty of both father and son. The unfortunately pug-faced girl had lost weight as well since her school days, revealing a willowy slenderness that reminded him of Narcissa Malfoy. Her wedding didn't seem to have affected her at all, but what was she doing with the owner of wizarding London's most celebrated bawdy house?

The two women stood with their heads close together, Pansy's hand resting atop a small pile of books on the edge of a shelf. His eye was caught by the smaller book on the top, its black leather binding cracked and faded. Pansy's fingers caressed it as she spoke to Lareine. He settled into a shadow and watched, listening carefully.

"I need more time," Lareine insisted softly. "It's a very delicate matter; one misstep either way-"

"We don't have much more time," Pansy hissed. "You said everything would be prepared."

"These are people, not potions." Severus raised one eyebrow at the asperity in the madame's voice. "Do you want it done, or do you want it done right?"

Pansy sighed and massaged her temples with both hands. "There are just so many details."

"Leave the details to me, dear. That's why I'm here, after all."

Nodding, the younger woman drew her hands away, taking a deep breath. "Luna-" Her gray eyes widened and narrowed in a single moment. "Lord Snape."

Unperturbed, Severus stepped towards them from the shadows. "I didn't wish to interrupt your conversation," he said silkily, inclining his head to each of them.

Pansy blushed becomingly, a talent it had taken her all of third year to master. "Gregory's birthday is in a week and a half," she explained. "I contracted Madame Lareine to tastefully arrange the celebration but I can't seem to stop fussing about the details."

The madame patted the woman's shoulder soothingly. "Don't worry, my dear," she assured. "Everything will be done in time. I promise. Run along before he becomes suspicious."

Nodding to Severus, Pansy brushed past him in the narrow aisle.

He wondered what she had meant in that moment before she'd seen him, but he didn't ask. Instead, he took Lareine's hand, fingers smoothing along her palm, and lightly kissed her knuckles. "Expanding your formidable library?" he murmured.

She smiled fully, a deep dimple appearing in one cheek. "There's always new information to learn."

"There certainly is," he agreed, not releasing her hand.

She pulled it away with a light laugh. "I must beg your pardon, Lord Snape, in leaving you. We have a bachelor party tonight that we must prepare for."

"And how far will _you_ be celebrating?"

"You should come and visit Nocturne tonight," she told him. "It's her night off, and I daresay she misses you." Without another word, she left him in the aisle.

He shook his head, turning to inspect the newly arrived titles. To his surprise, he found that Pansy had left her books balanced precariously on the edge of the shelf. The black leather book aroused his curiosity too much to resist and he ran his hands over the cracked binding. To those who knew the sensation, he small tome reeked of darkness. It wasn't the malevolent throbbing of curses, but merely the steady magical stench of something steeped in forbidden arts.

Sensing no traps, he opened the book to find that it was a research journal of some sort. Flipping through the pages only increased his utter astonishment; if treason could be physically held in one's hands, here it was.

The first mental siren was the handwriting. He had seen it enough, surely, filling scroll after scroll with far more information than he'd required. The writing was small and neat, elegant without the flourishes that would have made it difficult to read. There was, of course, a perfectly reasonable explanation as to how Hermione Granger's handwriting had come to be in his hands. It was faded, clearly written before her death, and she'd had two years between Dumbledore's murder and the final battle to accumulate her research.

The second shriek in his mind was set off by the topic itself. He knew the Headmaster had been telling Potter of the Horcruxes, and knew that Boy Wonder would have told his cronies. He should have expected that Granger would have examined the issue so thoroughly, but it was still staggering to see the depth of it on the page before him.

There wasn't much available material on Horcruxes; he knew, he'd helped Dumbledore for years to research them. Even Dark texts hesitated to cover them, or anything dealing with souls, really. The material in the book covered far more than the meager offerings of the school Restricted Section. He could recognize bits and pieces of the sources he and Albus had laboriously uncovered over the course of two decades. Charts, histories, diagrams of wand movements….seemingly all the knowledge ever acquired about Horcruxes was gathered into this single, innocuous looking book.

The third alarm sounded at the information contained in the final section of the tome: how to destroy the Horcruxes.

It was what he and Albus couldn't find. It was why Albus had damned himself trying to negate the bloody ring. The final page held no more than a list, naming each of the Horcruxes, a single line through the ones that had been countered and destroyed. More recent ink scored through Hufflepuff's Chalice and Slytherin's Locket, leaving only Nagini left unmarked.

How could that-

Severus knew through exceedingly careful probing that Voldemort couldn't sense when a Horcrux was destroyed. That portion of his soul, once removed, was never again connected directly to him. It was through this line of reasoning he's excluded Potter for the list of possible vessels; their connection was too strong. Granger had reached the same conclusion, adding in portions of the immensely complicated equations she'd used to either verify or refute the other possibilities.

Here, then, in his very hand, was the key to destroying Voldemort forever. He was about to read the section on how to eliminate it when a movement caught the corner of his eye. Closing the book, he swiftly replaced it atop its little pile, just in time to see Pansy return around the corner, a vaguely dreamy smile on her plain face.

"Ah, hello again, sir." She gestured to the stack of books at his elbow. "I'm afraid I forgot my purchases."

A Slytherin could never be anything but roundabout in his or her dealings with other houses, but with another Slytherin….well, sometimes bluntness really was the most efficient option. He reached out as she lifted her stack, laying one finger against the journal. "What, pray tell, is with this, Miss Parkinson?"

"Mrs Goyle," she corrected evenly. "My husband took it off Hermione when they found her body and gave it to me." She shrugged slightly, the smile curving at her lips. "He didn't understand what was in it."

"Why haven't you destroyed it?"

She turned and walked away, stopping at the end of the aisle to look back over her shoulder. "The Dark Lord isn't the only one with an interest in immortality, Professor."

He could only look after her and curse that he hadn't been able to read that all-important section.

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Severus decided to take Madame Lareine's advice that evening, and entered the Syron's Lair while the bachelor party was in full swing in the dining room. Rachel, the plump receptionist, simply nodded and pointed to the stairs.

The door swung open soundlessly at his knock, revealing Nocturne and a striking silver-haired girl sitting at the small table, heads close together over a large and detailed chart of some kind. Thanatos lounged comfortably on a pile of pillows on the floor, keeping himself between them and the door. He barely even shifted when the Potions Master entered, though the strong lines of his body thrummed with tension.

The other girl looked up and smiled easily, her entire being radiating sweetness and goodwill. "I didn't realize you had a guest coming, Nocturne; do you need me to leave?"

Her hostess shook her head absently, still focused on the chart.

"I apologize for intruding," Severus demurred. "Madame Lareine thought you might like a visit, but I can see-"

"Oh, please don't go," the cheerful young woman pleaded prettily. "Nocturne is helping me figure out my birth chart, but I'm sure it won't take a but a few more minutes."

"If you're certain-"

"Please, sit!" The girl rose from her chair, chatting happily as she led him to a seat. "I was left on the doorstep on the original Lair when I was an infant, so we don't know when I was born. Sapphire wants to cast my horoscope, so Nocturne is using Arithmancy to find out when I was born. It's all over my head, really," she confided in a loud whisper, "but she never makes me feel stupid. I could probably ask her to do the reading, but Sapphire enjoys it so much that I'd feel guilty. I'm called Luna, by the way."

"Well met, Miss Luna," he murmured, feeling somewhat trapped by her ebullience.

"Miss Luna! Oh, how cute! No wonder the other girls are so wild about you!"

Severus was beginning to understand why he hadn't met Luna before.

"Oh, look what Nocturne gave me!" She tugged at the thin chain around her neck, loosening her only partially tied dressing gown, and held up a gold, heart shaped locket. It had been polished till it gleamed, the only rough spot lingering where an inscription had been filed off. He recognized it as the necklace the raven haired beauty had bought some time before in the open market. Its silver twin hung from Nocturne's slender neck.

"It's lovely," he answered, wishing the annoying chit would cease her prattle. A large part of him wanted very much to snap at her, to be the bastard he truly was, but when one courted irony, one had to stay the course. So, he was civil and almost, dare he think it, pleasant.

Blowing out a sharp, relieved breath, Nocturne rolled up the finished chart and handed it to her colleague. She waved off the girl's effusive thanks, shooing her gently out of the room. Closing the door, she turned her back to it and crossed her eyes, sliding dramatically to the floor.

Severus laughed in spite of himself, a true deep laugh that shocked him to the core. He hadn't heard that laugh in at least a dozen years, if not more. While Nocturne got to her feet and righted her navy silk dressing gown, he cast a lazy eye over the sheets of equations that had been covered by the birth chart, recorded in a precise, round script. He could follow the, just barely, which spoke to the complexity of the work; he used Arithmancy with every potion he created or altered. He wasn't sure what the goal was, though; he felt like he was only looking at the middle of the problem.

Nocturne returned to the table and calmly gathered the sheets in her arms to put away. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why she needed such skills, but Lareine's voice echoed in his ears. _"Did you think I wished always to be a whore?"_ So instead, he sat back and simply watched her.

Thanatos rose gracefully and assisted his ward, disappearing into his connected room when all was clear. Nocturne passed by the chess game, pawns scattered all across the board, and gave Severus her secretive smile.

"You can tell me to go," he murmured, hand reaching out to stroke her face.

The Mona Lisa smile remained as she tenderly kissed his palm, and he took that to be answer enough.


	7. Even Angels Fall

**Disclaimer: Not mine, I promise. I give them back.**

_A/N: I'm very, very sorry for the delay, but I'm in the middle of my honors thesis, which is extremely time-consuming. I can't promise that the next chapter will be up anytime soon, but the story IS NOT DONE, I promise._

**Chapter Seven: Even Angels Fall**

Severus wasn't entirely sure why Madame Lareine had summoned him of all people when Nocturne fell ill, but he arrived even before the healer. The Syron's Lair kept two healers employed, but for any malady that wasn't sexual in nature they generally preferred to seek elsewhere. He'd been in the former Ministry building when the owl came, fastidiously examining the body of Charlie Weasley.

The Dark Lord wished to be very sure of the dragon handler's death and while Severus hadn't been specifically assigned to it, he was curious. A quick trip to Ollivander's in his silver trimmed robes had been sufficient to take with him the records of all wands sold by the store for Charlie's first year at Hogwarts. Meticulously recorded in a handbound ledger was all the information he needed to be certain for himself. Alder, thirteen and three quarters inches, inflexible, with dragon's heartstring; eleven Sickles and three Knuts. Next to the pertinent details was a small, infinitely complex sigil.

That was Ollivander's true gift, known to very few. When people laid hand on the wand most attuned to them, their innate magical signature flared for half a heartbeat. In that precise moment, a spell of his invention captured the physical representation of that signature, a sigil as unique as a snowflake. From that image, a great deal could be done if one knew where to look.

For Severus, he didn't have to look very far. The dead redhead lay on the examination table at his elbow, a plain white sheet draped across his lower body. Lifting a small pot with brush, the Potions Master intently studied the sigil. It would be tricky to reproduce it, but he'd studied runes for long enough that he wasn't terribly worried about it. The long, thin handle of the brush was brushed platinum, tightly bound about a short, angled brush of white unicorn hair. In the matching hand bowl, gleaming chrism waited to be used, holding a shimmering, suspended gold powder. He took a deep breath, keeping the sigil emblazoned in his mind, and began painting it onto Charlie Weasley's bare chest. The thick liquid caught the light, opalescent and glittering by turns. With the last stroke, blinding light filled the room, pulsing with the steady throb of a human heart. When it passed, the chrism had evaporated, leaving a permanent gold embossing on the skin.

It had given him the answer he needed. If it hadn't been Charlie Weasley, the finished symbol wouldn't have caused a reaction. No one had even considered that the bodies of the Golden Trio might not be the Golden Trio, so no such tests had been made, and now it was too late. The sigil was only reactive with an intact body and the corpses displayed on the gates of the Ministry had long since decayed past that point. For better or worse, and he had his own opinion of which it was, it was the genuine article lying lifeless beside him.

He had barely finished putting away his supplies when the messenger came from the Lair. From the bird's harried expression, though who can truly tell with an owl, his home had been first attempted. The creature dropped the letter into his hand, barely more than a folded scrap of parchment. One eyebrow arched severely upon reading, the owl hooting softly and anxiously. Lareine had two different styles of penmanship that he'd seen; one was an elegant calligraphy, for official announcements and invitations, the other a pretty yet practical form for her business dealings and archiving. He could recognize the shape of the letters easily enough but it had been hastily scrawled, reading simply _"Nocturne is ill. Come."_

He went.

She greeted him at Nocturne's door, appearing as calm and collected as ever but for the worry in her cornflower eyes. "The healer is delayed," she told him quietly, closing the door firmly behind him. "I'm not proficient enough in poisons to be able to discern if it is such, but it is a very sudden illness, whatever it is."

He instantly thought of Lucius but dismissed it almost as quickly; he didn't think Thanatos was careless enough to allow poison to pass his notice. The bodyguard stood in a shadowed corned of the room, his cold grey eyes watching patiently. Thanatos returned the dark man's nod but made no other move.

Sinking down onto the bed beside Nocturne, Severus gave the prostitute a detached examination, both physically and magically. Her skin was cold and dry, her lips and hands chapped and flaking. She burned with fever, hot and cold at once, an d shied away from his touch. Her magic core was muddied, he suspected purposefully so, and every attempt to read it was violently repelled. It made him curious; it took a high level of intelligence and skill to manage such a thing. He shook his head, not looking at the hovering madame as he smoothed the blue-black hair away from the young woman's face. "It is beyond me," he reported silkily. "I do not, however, believe it to be poison."

Lareine sighed with relief; though she was still concerned, she didn't like to think that her security was lax enough to allow a murder, successful or not. "Then we wait for the healer."

"I would say so."

Yet the mediwizard, when he finally arrived, was as mystified as they. "I have never seen anything like it," he told them, scratching at his mostly bald head. The few stubborn wisps of hair stood straight up. "With a fever, the skin should be dry, but with the chill she should be clammy. For the two to coexist should be impossible."

Severus growled deep in his throat and the mousy little man cringed.

Lareine disappeared momentarily to escort the healer from the Lair, reappearing a short time later with a recent publication on the long term effects of absorbed aphrodisiacs. "I sell my girls' bodies, Lord, Snape, but I do care about them." She pulled over one of the chairs from the table and transfigured it into a cushioned rocking chair.

"May I remain?"

"If you wish."

Thus their long vigil began.

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It was a surreal experience, the mostly silent guardianship over the unconscious young woman. Severus sent a message to his Lord, explaining his absence. Voldemort had been quite amused, generously giving his permission under the assumption that it was to further insinuate himself into the affections of the madame. Severus did nothing to correct that belief. He wasn't sure why the Dark Lord was so hellbent on connecting him to the madame, but it was to his advantage at the moment.

Lareine would disappear for hours at a time to oversee her business, leaving Thanatos and Severus alone in the room. The two had maintained a truce almost since meting but it began to smooth into a silent companionship. Mostly they played chess. Game after game of chess on a board brought from the bodyguard's private room. Severus didn't wonder why they ignored Nocturne's set; as always, it seemed to be mid-game. Severus had always been content in quiet and Thanatos spoke but rarely, nearly as mute as his ward, so they were not limited by inane conversation.

The Potions Master had enjoyed the challenge of chess with Albus. When he was feeling truly masochistic, he would accept a game with Minerva, which had greatly surprised him when he first learned of it. Thanatos presented a new and unique difficulty.

He seemed to be a reckless player, going after specific pieces with little thought to the safety of his own. It was only after Severus took the proffered sacrifices that the trap was sprung, and the Potions Master privately admired the tactic though he knew he would never play it himself. Thanatos began carefully, dispersing pieces cautiously about the board. The recklessness came gradually, lulling his opponent into false security, until he could utilize his placed pieces. Severus was soundly defeated those first few games; once he understood the technique, they were more or less evenly matched. The rash charges had been so very predictable, so very Gryffindor, that he hadn't expected the Slytherin genius beneath it.

When Thanatos was resting or out on errands for the Lair, Severus would discuss potions with Lareine. At times they would argue over new theories and suppositions, other discussions would lead into technique, and still others would simply dissect the efficacy of the potions themselves. He was surprised by the difference a woman's mind brought to the table; Lareine had a profound talent for finding more practical, efficient substitutes for some of the rarer ingredients. He couldn't' help but wonder what the circumstances had been to prevent her Mastery, but he didn't ask; he was still making his token obeisance to the god of irony.

One afternoon, however, he found himself entirely alone in the room with the sleeping Nocturne. Lareine had sent Thanatos to assist in guarding a sultry French girl called simply Jolie. She was going to visit family outside of L'Havre, and he was going to be gone for several days. The bodyguard had not been happy but Lareine had left him no choice. She'd also given him a packet of letters to deliver, things she said were too personal to trust to owls. The madame was in the monthly council meeting of brothel keepers; that had been a shock. Every month they met to iron out general rules and regulations, mostly having to do with the health and safety of the workers.

Severus took the opportunity to study Nocturne's room. He'd been in other rooms in the Lair an d they all showed small personal touches. Mayhem, the house's strongest and most talented dominant, kept a framed picture of her mother behind a perpetually shifting candle. Emerald had enchanted her ceiling with the night sky; while her customers were recovering, she would study the stars. Nocturne's room was carefully, precisely impersonal. Everything about it quietly claimed good taste but nothing else. Even the sheer lavender and deep navy hangings gave no clue to her personality.

Nocturne stirred restlessly, the satin sheets rustling with movement, and he quickly went over to her. She still showed no signs of waking, though he believed she was vaguely aware of her surroundings. She knew who was near her, who was holding her hand.

Her skin had grown a rather sickly color, like that of someone with a healthy suntan who'd been trapped indoors for too long. Her hair was gradually lightening, though towards what color he couldn't begin to guess. Softly stroking her dry cheek, he racked his memory for the connection he knew existed between those visual clues. It was akin to Polyjuice poisoning, when one has been taking too many successive doses without allowing the body to rest in its natural state, yet he had often been with her for more than one hour at a time without her eating or drinking anything. Similarly, glamours wore off too soon to be-…

Glamours.

He'd once heard Albus and Flitwick discussing improvements in glamour charms. The diminutive professor had believed that longer lasting glamours could be developed in time. Albus had asked him what effect this would have on glamour sickness.

Glamour sickness didn't happen very often, but it was nearly identical to Polyjuice poisoning. The body simply wasn't meant to be in another form for such long periods of time and would eventually face a witch or wizard to either release the altered state or die. Peter Pettigrew, while living with the Weasleys, had been obliged to sneak away on a regular basis to revert to human form. Glamour sickness, that had to be it.

He fingered his wand in its hidden sleeve sheathe, considering his options. She must have kept the spell active for so long for a reason, but she was seriously ill because of it. If he cancelled the spell, she would be able to start recovering. Her secret would also be revealed.

That was the hesitating point, really. He knew that she was more than just a high-priced prostitute, but he didn't want to know how much more. Not when there were too many variables in the game already. The Syron's Lair was a part of it due to Lareine's involvement, whatever that actually was, but how much did the individual girls know?

He left his wand where it was. Let Lareine decide; whatever else Nocturne could be, she was still a girl of the Lair, and Lareine's responsibility. He stalked across the room, black robes billowing, and he scowled, suddenly in a very bad mood. He enjoyed puzzles normally, but he didn't have enough pieces of this one to make any sense of it. He despised the feeling of running his head into a brick wall, as it were.

Severus paused by Nocturne's chessboard, taking in the odd configuration. Many of the pieces, both black and white, were primed for attack, but some of them hadn't moved since the first time he'd come to this room, so many weeks before. His black eyes narrowed at the two white rooks occupying the same square. That wasn't…He shook his head and sighed. Too many games. A tiny corner of parchment showed from beneath the heavy marble board and he tugged it out, slender fingers automatically smoothing out the creases.

He froze. He knew that handwriting. Six years of essays, of house questionnaires, of term summaries…he knew that handwriting. With that recognition, he couldn't help but read on.

_Hello, my lovely!_

_So tell me, has Lucius Malfoy broken out in a raging case of syphilis yet? No? Pity. Ah well, nothing for it but to keep trying, I suppose._

_Our little Birdies are coming in from all over, some of them with the most interesting things to say. Red, White, and Blue are increasingly White, as are Green and Orange. There are still pockets of Black in it of course, but the rooks will fly soon enough. They're getting restless; for all our sakes, I hope the next gambit comes soon._

_I'll confess, Spain still surprises me. So beautifully simple. It's a little hard to swallow really, no pun intended on your duties; here I work so hard at being witty and urbane, and in Spain, clumsy shyness is just as efficient. _

_India worries me. I won't couch this in humor because I don't want it to be accidentally overlooked. I think our surviving twin may be unraveling, and the secrets will start to fray after. I've mentioned it to our clever friend but I'll mention it to you as well. I also told old Whitehair; hopefully his girl will keep him on a short leash._

_Be careful, lovely. You're in the Black, and I don't want you to end up like the dragon. Blessed be, Blaise._

Why was Blaise Zabini writing to Nocturne? He assumed it was to Nocturne; Thanatos didn't seem to be the type to let other men call him lovely. It was mostly code and not even a very good one at that, but then, how good did it have to be? They held more secrets; for the moment, they held the advantage.

Dragon…did they mean Draco? Did they know where his godson was? And Whitehair…surely they couldn't mean…No. Albus was dead. Albus was very dead. It was just another damn code. Clever little friend…Hermione? She'd always been called the cleverest witch of her age. So if Lareine-

Speak of the devil. He could smell her light fragrance of gardenia, heady yet subtle. He replaced the page without looking at her, knowing she could see every motion.

"Keeping busy, I see," she observed, coming to smooth her hands across his back.

"I had to do something."

She stepped around him, fingers caressing his jaw. "Really? What a pity she's asleep then."

"I said something, not someone."

"Can we fix that?" She stood on tiptoe, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. She tugged his head down and covered his mouth with hers.

He froze. She was kissing him. She was- no! Severus Snape did not kiss! He made to push her away but her wand was out at his throat, her blue eyes hard as sapphires.

"You know, you're awfully clumsy for a spy."

"I'm retired," he answered dryly.

"And the letter found itself, did it?"

"You're playing a dangerous game, Lareine."

Her eyebrows arched strongly. "I've been selling my body to strangers since I was seventeen, and lived in Knockturn Alley since I was fourteen. Do you really believe I haven't learned a thing or two about danger?"

"You're risking a lot of people's lives."

"You say that like life is such a prize."

"What are you working towards, Lareine?" he asked bluntly, all formality gone.

"I prefer an audience in suspense." The hand not holding the wand traveled down his body to cup him firmly. "Things are more exciting that way."

"For you, perhaps."

"Don't lie to me, Snape." She caressed him expertly, feeling him hard against her palm. "Not when there's such obvious proof to the contrary."

His hands rose to slide along her full hips, crushing her to him. "Foolish woman," he growled, breath hot in her ear. "You don't know me well enough to play that game."

"Teach me then." She ground against him with a breathless cry, the game giving her the edge to her arousal that men alone never could anymore.

He couldn't call it anything but fucking. Hard, fast, and silent on the floor, sure to leave bruises and bloody scratches, it was the desperate affirmation of two people remembering what it was to feel alive for all the wrong reasons.

He dozed in his chair later, pretending not to hear the soft whisper of owl's wings bearing away yet another round of secrets.

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He'd forgotten to tell Lareine about the glamour sickness.

He could make out the obvious excuses of being distracted but he didn't , not even to himself. There wasn't a point to it, really.

Severus pulled away all of the blankets, a bowl of lavender scented water sitting on the nightstand Taking a cloth, he began washing Nocturne from head to toe, cloth and hand smoothing over her dry skin. The fading was getting worse; her hair was a dull brown-black and lightening every day. Soon, the spells on her features would start to shift. She sighed in her sleep, almost undulating at his touch.

Gently turning her onto her stomach, he tried to understand his strange weakness for this mystifying young woman. A weakness it was, no mistake about that. Lucius had already discerned that, and he believed it was only Voldemort's ambiguous plans for Madame Lareine that had kept him from recognizing it. He was captivated by this elfin creature; by her silence, by her obvious intelligence, by the self-loathing he sometimes saw in her eyes in the quietest moments. It was an obsession born of blissful ignorance and curiosity, but he didn't know how to sate it.

Thin scars were appearing on her back, curving slightly. He was familiar with them, in a general sort of way; Slicing Hexes tended to arc in the course of their journey, leaving trails with a vague swoosh at the end of them. How had she gotten them? They were a pale white-pink, faded with time. She hadn't always been a prostitute, so what had she done or been previously to earn such a punishment?

The uneven coloration continued to shirt, the last remnants of alabaster skin washing away with the magical soap to the unhealthy pallor beneath. Dark lines had appeared on her lower back, as yet indistinct, but they became blindingly clear as he cleaned her.

He froze, on eyebrow arching severely.

Raven's wings spread across the swell of her hips, emerging from either side of a crown's outline. Two black snakes curved through the crown to form two initials.

SS.

It was his symbol, a bitter boy's variation on his mother's ancient family crest. It was impressed on the wax seal of his letters, carved into the emerald of the only ring he wore, and he had only ever marked one person with it. He could remember every detail about that time, that beginning of the surreal span of a traitor thriving where he didn't want to belong.

Hogwarts didn't reopen after Albus' death, at least not officially. The Golden Trio and the remnants of Dumbledore's Army, supplemented by a handful of other determined students, had used it as their headquarters because Harry Bloody Potter was too sentimental to return to Grimmauld Place. Still, no matter the danger, no matter the security risks, students would be stupid. They'd gone to Diagon Alley of all places, strolling footloose and fancy free. They'd been seen and reported, instantly set upon by all the Death Eaters in Apparating Distance. He hadn't answered that call; his face was too recognizable. Instead, he'd waited with the Dark Lord at the old Riddle House, there to herald the first returns.

There's been a brief battle in the midst of the crowded street, ending with the Death Eaters retreating as suddenly as they'd appeared. Much to the chagrin of the DA, three of their female members had been taken along.

He's sword silently at the arrival of the trip, careful not to allow any expression on his face other than a mild show of interest. Crabbe and Goyle were already busily stripping the girls of their robes and Muggle clothing. Two of them fought viciously, one shrieking, one sobbing, both struggling violently against their captors. The third stood stoically, eyes flashing and teeth gritted as they tore the clothing from her stiff body.

"Will you join us, Severus?" Lucius asked gaily, wrapping long blonde hair about one fist. He tugged sharply and she cried out, pushing at him.

"They were my students, Lucius," he drawled silkily, watching goosebumps shiver across bared skin. "I rather think I've been exposed enough to their idiocy."

"Your loss, old boy. Your loss."

So he had stood and watched the brutal rapes of his former students. Two of them, perhaps unexpectedly, had been virgins. At no point were they being assaulted by less than one man, often each by three or more. They were not just being violated, but beaten even bloodier. He'd expected them all to cry, to sob, to wait over the pain and injustice. Certainly all three of them were well known as emotional biddies.

His black eyes kept being drawn to the silent one, her gaze firmly fixed on the ceiling no matter that atrocities they committed against her. He could not call it submission, there was nothing yielding about it Rather, she seemed to be waiting, biding her time, though for what she wasn't certain. Whatever was going through her head, it kept bringing his attention back to her.

"I wonder, Severus, why you deny yourself such pleasing revenge."

The Potions Master regarded his Lord cautiously but there was no condemnation or accusation in the vermillion gaze. Tom Riddle lounged in his father's favorite chair, elbow propped on the carved arm and long fingers curled gracefully under his chin. He jut watched the casual entertainment, his thin lips curved slightly in a smile. Severus shrugged elegantly, gripping his elbows tightly at a particularly shrill shriek. "I prefer women, my Lord, not girls."

"Hardly girls," Voldemort noted, eyeing one rounded breast. It was freezing outside, the raging winter finding its way through the decaying house to further torment the poor creatures. "Enough," he ordered lazily, watching the trio thoughtfully.

Goyle Senior poked at the girl nearest him, his trousers still around his ankles. "I think it's dead," he reported glumly.

"Crucio!" The despot trained his wand on the hulking ape, keeping the curse full for two minutes. "Really, Goyle, you must learn to be more careful with your toys."

Lucius narrowed his eyes at the two survivors, glaring at the one who sat with her back straight, arms wrapped around her comrade in absent comfort. "My Lord, may I-"

"No." The Dark Lord rose from his seat and glided to the girls, kneeling down in front of them. He lifted the chin of the stronger one but she didn't meet his eyes, looking just slightly to her right. "You may have the other. Severus."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"This one I give to you. Play whatever games you wish, but keep her alive. This one is your pet, your companion during our struggles."

"You are generous, my Lord," he replied pleasantly, bowing low towards the man's back. "I thank you."

"Take her."

He didn't dare disobey, and he knew what the madman wanted to see. Grabbing a handful of hair near the base of the skull, he yanked the young woman to her feet and dragged her after him deeper into the house. He hurled her into the room he used when he stayed there and slammed the door, warding it strongly. They stood in heavy silence, each watching each other from the corner of their eyes.

"No words?" he inquired finally.

"No need."

With a whispered word, he sent his heavy robes floating across the small space to wrap about her shoulders. "I'll get you some pain potion."

"No thank you."

"You heard him; I'm to keep you alive." He poured two glasses of dark wine and mixed in a medium-strength solution. He might have gone for something stronger, but he didn't want her unconscious or incoherent, not when her coldness now might serve to do some good. "Drink it or I'll force you."

Without a word, she took the glass and drained it, handing it back to him. He busied himself with healing her wounds as best he could. He wasn't a healer, but his long history had taught him many spells that were useful for the art. Her voice fell like lead into the stillness. "Why?"

"Wrong question."

"Bad answer."

"Vague question." There was no fear in her voice, but perhaps she was simply past fear. He could feel her skin clammy with the body's fall towards shock. "You haven't defined it at all."

"Take your pick, then." The robe fell from her thin shoulders, thinner than he remembered. Unbidden, the memory came to him of an accident in the classroom, in her fifth year. A cauldron had exploded, throwing her against him, and he'd felt her curves soft against him even as the shrapnel cut into her flesh. She's been quiet then, too, but for a single moment, neither of them had moved. The man who denied all touch and the girl who thought nothing of it melted into a seamless line within the bubble of atmosphere. Then the noise intruded and reality came crashing down. He hadn't heard her giggling over it with her girlfriends later, and therefore had said nothing of it to Albus. He growled and roughly fastened the clasp, shielding her body from sight.

"I have no answer I can give you."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"As you wish."

"I wish nothing."

"No?" He trailed his hands down her long hair, fingers ghosting against the back of her neck. "You don't wish to be back with your friends? To be safe and home? You don't wish the Dark Lord gone and life returned to normal?"

"What would any child now know of normal?"

"You thought you did, once."

"I thought a lot of things, once. I believed in a lot of things that seem to be proving false."

"Like hope?"

"Like prophecy."

"None of your beloved Trelawney's spinnings? I'm shocked."

She remained silent, and he couldn't help but reel back from the surreality of the entire experience. She'd never been this level headed, this controlled…what were they teaching nowadays in the closed Hogwarts?

"Why?"

"Wrong question."

"So what's the right one?"

"Go to hell."

"That's not a question."

"Sure of your own damnation, that's commendable."

"You didn't scream."

"I won't give you the satisfaction."

"And what would you know of satisfaction?"

"He trusted you."

He recoiled from her, his robes snapping about him as he paced the room furiously. "He was a fool."

"And you enjoyed it."

Shoving her forcefully against the wall, he ground into her, her hands pinned above her head. "People always wonder what brings you back from something," he grated harshly. "They never ask what brings you to it in the first place."

"Too many buttons."

"Too many questions."

"Wrong questions."

Severus rested his large nose against the crown of her head but smelled only blood, sweat, and fear. "So what's the right one?"

She shook her head.

"You were a virgin."

She craned her neck back to look him straight in the eye. "Reputations aren't always true."

"If I don't mark you, he'll kill you."

"Yes, he seems fond of that."

His eyes flicked involuntarily to his left forearm. "Turn around."

"I'm not a little boy."

Sighing, he spun her about by the shoulder, pressing her up against the wall. He hadn't ever marked anyone before, though he vaguely knew the process. There had to be intent in order for it to be anything more than a decoration, but what was his intent? He was saving her in a way, not that she or anyone else would ever appreciate it, but he didn't think there would be anything to it. He slid his hand between the front halves, traveling along her hip to the small of her back. He set his wand against her spine, murmuring the incantation.

It hurt badly, but he could barely feel her wince against him. "Two days," he murmured, holding her close against him. "Two days, and I'll arrange for the two of you to get home."

"Where's home anymore?"

"Hogwarts, then."

"And our other?"

"I can't promise."

"I wouldn't trust you if you did."

"Impertinent girl."

"He trusted you."

"He trusted Riddle."

"Prophecy isn't everything."

He'd kept his word, and managed to succeed in getting the body of the third girl. He'd told them of their escape, wishing he could heal the other survivor, and knocked himself over the head to give them the chance to do so. Her patronus had carried the message shortly thereafter that they'd arrived safely back. It had sustained him through the hours of intermittent Cruciatus he'd received as punishment for his carelessness. He couldn't save Albus, he couldn't save Draco, but at least he'd been able to save them. They had been broken, but they were young. They could recover in time, if they chose to.

Sitting on the bed beside Nocturne, he traced a shaking hand over the dark lines on her lower back. He couldn't think, couldn't understand what this meant, but the realization thudded unbearably in his bones.

The door opened and he shot to his feet, whirling around to find a vaguely bemused Thanatos standing in the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder. The two men stared at each other, and the amusement slowly left the bodyguard's grey eyes. "Glamour sickness," Severus said abruptly. "Lock your doors and let her be in her natural state. She'll recover."

Thanatos nodded thoughtfully and stood aside to let him pass. If he didn't know better, he would have said Severus Snape was panicked.

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Severus paced relentlessly through the empty halls of his house. He was exhausted, he hadn't slept in days, but he couldn't seem to stop. It was impossible! She couldn't possibly be-but she was. It simply wasn't possible, but it was impossible that she could be anybody else, not with her mark on him. He'd received a short note from Lareine informing him of Nocturne's recovery, thanking him for his solution. It ended with a delicate, subtle question as to the reason for his sudden and prolonged absence.

He didn't reply.

He didn't want to play her game. Even knowing one piece he couldn't identify the rest of the puzzle. He didn't want to play.

A startlingly white owl rapped sharply at his window and he turned out of reflex. Golden eyes glared at him, thrusting the letter forcefully against the glass. It looked vaguely familiar, but where had he…Potter! He yanked open the window, hearing it snap from its frame and shatter against the floor, and grabbed the letter. With an attempted peck at his hand, the owl hooted and winged away.

But the writing wasn't Potter's, though it was equally familiar. "Draco…" he whispered, his migraine pounding fiercely against his temples. His hands shook as he opened the letter.

_Hello, Godfather. _

_I hear you've stumbled upon an amazing discovery, a name to ripple across time. Or is it the face to launch a thousand ships? You're no Paris, but I suppose you'll do. The pieces are moving closer and closer, Uncle Severus. Do they feel like a noose tightening? Or is the rope already occupied in holding useless bodies to an empty gate?_

_Be very, very careful, Godfather. You saved my life as best you could, and more importantly you saved my soul, so I give you this warning in return. Be careful. Even your mighty intellect isn't up to the game we're playing. You made your wagers, and I haven't yet decided if you lost._

_I hope you enjoyed the gift of Charlie Weasley; it was a costly gambit, but it seems to have caused a furor in the flock, so I suppose it proved its worth after all. How do you believe in fake deaths if you haven't real deaths to back them up? How do you lull someone into victory if they haven't won anything?_

_And please tell Pansy I say hello to them. They haven't written recently, but we've been thinking of them._

_Be careful, Godfather._

The parchment burst into flames as soon as he was finished reading it, but he was too stunned to even drop it until the burns licked at his fingers. Draco…


	8. Maelstrom

**Disclaimer: As always, the characters (most of them) do not belong to me, I simply toy with the efforts of my betters.**

_A/N: I am SOOOOO sorry about the long hiatus! Fortunately though, my thesis is now completed, all 150K words of it. I can't promise updates every day, but they'll be much more frequent than they have been._

**Chapter Eight: Maelstrom**

The Moorish palace of Alhambra had existed in one form or another for over a thousand years, the first written records of it placing the original structure in the 880s. It had passed through and across dynasties, falling and rebuilding countless times, from the Moorish kings to the Jewish viziers to the Catholic majesties. In its present incarnation, it was a museum of architecture and history, a showcase of art from different cultures and ages.

But in the most ancient rooms, there was another purpose at work, perhaps a darker purpose with a darker voice. Shielded from curious Muggle eyes with false walls and faulty construction, the rooms reeked of ancient magics, the residual effect of thousands of wizards living and practicing over the course of a thousand plus years. Even witches and wizards found it difficult to get into, the charms protecting entrance taken over by a more necessary secrecy. Tucked away behind countless layers of anti-eavesdropping charms, spells placed to guarantee loyalty and true identity, nine people sprawled comfortably on mounds of silk-tasseled pillows, trays of refreshments scattered between them.

Ginny Weasley sighed and tossed a handful of papers onto the large stack roughly in the center of their circle, her amber eyes weary. "Please don't tell me we're stymied," she pleaded to no one in particular.

"Not stymied," Michael Corner replied pensively. He felt almost odd to be out of his crisp three piece suit and back into traditional wizarding robes; Americans didn't much care for the older traditions of honor and respectability. "We just have to be patient."

"I hate patience," Neville grumbled, glaring moodily at the cup of frosty juice. He was technically the host of this little gathering, it being held in the Granada territory of Spain, but he wasn't allowed to touch much of anything for fear of breaking it.

"Not patient, then. Careful."

"Tell us again, Luna."

The former Ravenclaw nodded with a vague, dreamy smile and shuffled the papers in her lap, finding the one with her most important notes. Her wide eyes, much too large for her face, scanned it swiftly. "Pansy and I have to back off for a bit," she reported concisely. Luna hadn't ever changed in essentials, but it had been tempered by war to the point that the truly important things were said simply and without the embellishment of her tabloid upbringing. "Gregory is getting suspicious, and we're worried he might mention it to his father."

"His father's as daft as he is," Cho dismissed, absently filing her nails. "That's not really a worry."

"Not the father himself," Ginny murmured, understanding where her yearmate was heading. "But if the father passes it along like a good little peon…"

"Bam, we lose that source of information, and two good people," their black haired leader finished for them. They all looked over at him, eyes performing the familiar flick up to the scar on his forehead. "Do what you have to do, Luna, but safeguard that notebook with your life."

She nodded and brushed the butterbeer cap necklace. Only she knew which one was the transfigured book of Horcruxes, and that wasn't a secret she was revealing to anyone, not even Pansy. It had been too close a thing last time.

"Why is Goyle suspicious?" Neville asked curiously. "He wasn't before."

"Pansy's pregnant," answered Luna, her pale cheeks stained with a faint blush. "Mr. Goyle put a charm on the household to override contraceptive potions just in case she decided to take them. Unless I get pregnant myself, it's going to be harder for the Polyjuice and glamours to sustain the illusion. I'll have to spend more time among the house elves, which will drastically limit the amount of time I can be in the library researching. Gregory doesn't work, remember; he doesn't have to."

Glancing over at the other, silent members of their group, Harry held out a hand. "What do you think? Should we move Luna elsewhere?"

"Not France," Gabrielle Dealcour rejected instantly. "You know I think highly on your intellect, Mademoiselle, but your beauty is lacking. For my people, one must please both the passion and the aesthetic."

"I don't think it's safe to move her anywhere else." Kingsley Shacklebolt cleared his throat, tugging at the small gold earring. "We need her near a library and too many of us move about to guarantee steady research."

"And still no idea on how to get to Snakeface," Blaise Zabini added. As usual, he draped his robes over his ruined left leg, the elegant cane on the ground before him. "Hannah really doesn't have a way to help us?"

"Not yet, she's working on it." Ginny reread the letter in her other hand, picking a small puff pastry from the plate balanced on her knee. "She's watching."

"Watching." Cho shook her head, glossy black hair flying in thin silk wisps across her face. "Some help that is."

"What about our clever little friend? What news from her?" Reaching across Neville, Blaise took the letter Ginny handed him and read it silently. "Oh."

Harry absently twirled his wand in his hand, remembering how he had worked endlessly to perfect it. Combined with the incantation, it created a broad shield that accurately rebounded offensive spells. Remus had taught it to them during what would have been their seventh year, soon after the Junior Order-as the expanded Dumbldore's Army had come to be called- had brought the few turncoat Slytherins into its fold. It had been such a surreal experience, to stare down a wand at your enemy of six years and know that you were placing your life and safety in their hands. "Snape's too close," he said finally. "What is it that he wants?"

"It's Snape-"

"Professor Snape," Ginny corrected automatically, making a face as soon as she heard herself. "Anyway, what he wants isn't important. What he's going to do is what we need to figure out."

"For which we need to learn what he wants." Shrugging, Michael held up his hands as protection against her evil look. "He's going to act upon what he wants; finding one is finding the key to the other."

"If he acted upon his wants, Harry would have been dead his first day at Hogwarts. He's an intelligent, complicated man. He's not going to do anything stupid or impulsive."

"He killed Dumbledore, didn't he?"

Ginny shook her head, not in negation, but simply to indicate the complexity of the case. "According to Hagrid-"

"-who was even more gullible than Colin Creevey-"

"-Dumbledore forced Snape to do it," she went on, smacking her lover upside the head. Harry gingerly rubbed the spot through his messy black hair, but stayed silent. "They argued in the forest, and Harry and Draco both said that the Headmaster pleaded with the professor."

Harry grimaced; he didn't particularly like recalling that night.

But Neville's frown put even his to shame. "We don't know what he was pleading for though. He could have been asking him not to do it."

"But Hagrid said Snape was arguing against whatever Dumbledore was forcing him to do."

"Hagrid was often mistaked; are we so very sure that he wasn't mistaken in this? Did he truly overhear the conversation correctly?" It seemed so sensible in Kingsley's deep voice, so reasonable. Experience had taught them all to distrust anything that seemed so obvious.

"If the Headmaster was anything like Madame Maxime, he had numerous charms placed upon his office to ensure secrecy, privacy, and all manner of things similar. Why then would he feel the need to go deep into the Forbidden Forest to speak with Professor Snape unless he felt it too important to trust to spells?"

"Too important to trust to spells?" Kingsley echoed.

Gabrielle nodded, an ice queen against pale blue pillows. "Many wizards become crippled by their magic because they fail to realize that for every spell, there is a counterspell. There may not be time to use it, but it exists. For every insurance of privacy, there was at least one eavesdropping spell in place, by allies as well as by enemies." She shook her hair back over her shoulder, the silver-white fall tumbling in a shining river. It was habit, more instinct than thought, but the others were more or less immune to it by now. Blaise still liked to react, but they all privately felt that it was more because he liked making the Veela smile. It wasn't a very nice smile, but it was much more than she usually gave. "The Forbidden Forest trusted Hagrid and kept him safe; it also kept him secret, which is why not even Dumbledore seems to have known that someone else was there."

"And he would have heard anyone else coming, making it safer than his office," Neville finished. "So we understand the precautions. That still doesn't tell us what the conversation was."

"There is a way to find out."

Blaise scowled. "Our lovely friend is in far too much trouble already to risk her in that. Snape is an expert in both Legilimency and Occlumency, remember? He'll sense her in his mind before they've even breathed once."

"He hasn't yet."

"That doesn't mean he won't if she does it again."

"Lareine-"

"Lareine is an admirable woman," Blaise argued, hand gripping the head of his cane. "She is intelligent and resourceful but the simple fact is that she takes too many risks! Neither of them is in a safe position, and he isn't placed much better."

"Snape?"

"No."

Luna cleared her throat, cheeks flushing with the pale embarrassment she also showed when interrupting any of them. "We have time," she offered quietly. "We know what we need to do. Professor Snape doesn't really factor into that. As long as they can keep him more or less contained, we can continue trying to find a way to accomplish our goals. We can't focus on him, or we'll lose sight of the bigger picture."

Harry laughed. "You know, if anyone had told me back at Hogwarts that Loony Luna was telling me to keep an eye on the bigger picture, I would have told them they were barking." He sighed and laughed again, softer and more reflective. "Damned if you aren't right, though."

They all chuckled at that, not so much because it was funny but because they recognized that they needed to. Humor, like everything else, was a reaction, not an impulse. "Was it really necessary to give them the Dragon?" Neville asked wistfully when the moment had passed.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Ginny gave him another of her formidable glares, inherited precisely from her mother, but he shared an infuriatingly mild smile. "Because it was," she said shortly. "That's the end of it. Now is there anything else? It's too dangerous to stay for long."

"India."

The other eight glanced at Blaise, eyebrows raised in polite confusion.

"She's too dangerous. Another martyr to the cause would help us significantly, and it keeps our secrets safe."

"You want to kill Padma?"

"She's losing it, mate." He shook his head, his typically mocking smile strangely absent. "She's a sundered twin, going around pretending to be her dead sister. The strain is too much. If they catch her- and they will soon if she continues to be so reckless- she'll give us all away. She has absolutely no strength to protect our secrets."

"Traumatic suicide or accident, do you think?"

"Murder," Ginny decided, ignoring the niggling voice at the back of her mind that said they shouldn't be discussing this so coolly. It wasn't hard to ignore after so many years; her only wonderment was that the voice hadn't vanished entirely. "Let one of the Death Eaters get close enough to her, then put them under Imperius so they don't try to torture her first."

"Who will be the first to cry her death?"

"I will." The redhead briefly closed her eyes. "We were close at Hogwarts, and the only other one that was exceptionally close to Parvati-well…." She shrugged. "It wouldn't be smart to have her speak. So it will be me."

"I'll let Viktor know. It'll be safest for him, and he can choose the unlucky sot."

"Be discreet."

"Of course," he retorted indignantly. "Aren't I always?"

"Blaise, you diddled the daughter of the Italian Minister at a public banquet. Do we really need to question this?"

"Yes, but everyone who knows me knows it really was me," he replied with a rogue grin.

"Keep care of your Birdies," Harry instructed as they all began to rise to their feet. "We need all the information we can get. And Neville?"

The sharp-faced boy looked up warily.

"Don't be afraid to indulge your own inclinations. Take on a few guys now and then."

Neville just laughed, and the meeting was done.

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The furniture in the conference room was very traditionally wizarding, elegant and refined and decidedly uncomfortable. The black oak chairs ringing the table had nothing in the way of padding and there wasn't a single person proportioned in such a way as to make the curving armrests remotely useful. There were nearly two dozen of them, plus the Dark Lord, their body heat combining to make the closed room stifling and hot. The meeting stopped short of having the dossiers on the large oval table, but it was nearly the only thing missing.

Severus almost missed the days of meeting in abandoned farmhouses and wailing moors. Voldemort holding a meeting in a conference room…just one more way they'd all misinterpreted the megalomaniac. It made him no less evil, of course, certainly no less twisted, but it made it….odd. As the Dark Lord glared at them all impartially, his blonde secretary circulated with a basket of muffins. Severus glanced in it when she came to him, seeing banana nut, blueberry, cinnamon apple, and bran. He shook his head slightly and she passed on to Rupert Greengrass, offering him his choice.

Voldemort had taken a banana nut.

Even now, while he glared at them, his long-fingered hands slowly peeled off the paper muffin cup so as to tear away as little of the muffin as possible. Voldemort was eating a muffin.

The Potions Master returned his gaze to his hands, laced together in his lap. It seemed safer than contemplating the Dark Lord's pastry selection.

"I have set you all a task," Voldemort hissed, crumbs spraying out of his mouth on the sibilant s's. "Each of you has had something to do, and all of you have disappointed me."

Without even looking up, Severus braced himself for a round of Cruciatus that didn't come.

"You will therefore redouble your efforts. And you will explain to me why you have not gotten anywhere."

"My Lord," Claudius Parkinson began deferentially, his head ducked into his shoulder in anticipation of curses, "the Weasley bitch and her golem disappeared for a period of four days about a week ago. My informants couldn't tell me where they went, only that they came back with new information."

"What information?"

"I don't know, my Lord," he answered, cringing further.

"Antonin?"

Dolohov laid his hands on the table and slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, my Lord, but Shacklebolt disappeared at what appears to be the same time. When he returned, he didn't even meet with his seconds, simply went out and began speaking again."

"They were meeting," Severus said quietly, conscious of how every eye turned to him. He continued to study his hands. "Reports from America indicate that Michael Corner was also gone, and with primary elections so close, he could hardly afford to lose campaigning time to anything less significant."

"Do we know who they are yet, Severus?" Voldemort demanded hungrily. "Have you learned that?"

"I am exploring other methods," he replied obliquely. "The method used to verify Charlie Weasley only works on bodies, living or newly dead. The physical body must be present and the sigil painted onto bare skin. I can't use them to find out if someone thousands of miles away is alive or dead or pretending to be someone they're not."

"What of Lareine?"

"Her friend in Spain is reluctant to speak; Longbottom is a very good customer." He didn't add the surprising news that the walking disaster had recently started patronizing male prostitutes. As amusing as it would have been to watch the general reaction, it was imprudent. "The madam will continue trying."

"Yours has been a profitable association," Voldemort noted, his thin lips curving in an approximation of a smile.

Severus merely nodded.

Ingrid, the pale blonde secretary, came back into the room from putting away the muffins, biting her lower lip anxiously. "My Lord?"

"What is it, Ingrid?"

"An owl just came in from Mordred Bulstrode. He's placed in India," she added helpfully, spotting the passing look of incomprehension. "He says that the Patil twin is dead. He and several others managed to infiltrate one of her crowds, but the younger Vincent Crabbe killed her before they could capture her for questioning. Master Crabbe is being held under close guard, but he seems to not be able to remember it at all."

"Did the child martyr herself?" Tom Riddle asked aloud, but no one dared answer him. After a long silence, he sighed, eating the last of his muffin and fastidiously wiping the crumbs off his deep emerald robes. "Thank you, Ingrid, you may go."

Dropping a swift curtsey, the young woman scurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

"This shouldn't be possible, isn't possible, and yet it is happening, and none of you can explain to me how or why."

"The 'why' is obvious, my Lord. They just want to depose you and set up their little Golden Age again." No sooner had the words left his mouth than Rupert Greengrass was on the floor writhing under the unspeakable pain of an Unforgiveable. The others watched in a mixture of relief, fear, and dispassion.

"Severus."

"My Lord?"

"Go to Lareine," the despot ordered. "Find out what you can."

"Yes, my Lord."

Ignoring the travail of the man next to him, Severus stood and bowed, his robes swirling fluidly around him as he left the room. He nearly bumped into the pale secretary, her brown eyes gleaming. "You're going in again, Miss Sigurdson?"

"A Floo message, Lord Snape." She met his eyes, but was it determination or…or triumph he saw there? "Michael Corner won his party's ticket nomination in America. He's on the final election ticket."

"I see." Without any further conversation, he left her to deliver her news and retreated as swiftly from the Ministry as dignity would allow him. The gates swung shut behind him, and only his memory heard the dull thunk of the bodies that had hung there. Three bodies, little more than children. Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, and Ronald Weasley. Were any of them truly dead? Were all them?

He knew he should follow his orders before anyone else emerged from the Ministry, knew he should go the Syron's Lair and ply Lareine for more information in the continuing façade, but his steps took him no further than the wall on the opposite side of the street. He leaned against his, arms folded against his chest, and stared at the wall. Remus Lupin, Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick, Fred and George Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Molly Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, even batty old Arabella Figgs, They and so many more had hung there for months, taken down since and thrown only the gods knew where. He could feel their eyes watching him still and wondered which eyes they were; were they the eyes of life, that knew him only as the traitor and murdered of Dumbledore? Or were they the eyes of death, that regarded him and weren't so sure? He couldn't answer his own question, but he was used to that.

Nearly an hour had passed when he became aware of a presence beside him. He hadn't heard anyone approach him but he didn't go for his wand; there weren't many people living who could sneak up on him unwitting, and he had always trusted the very few who could. His pitch eyes glanced to his side to see a tall, muscular man with long platinum blond hair. He nodded in greeting, his gaze returning to the wall.

Thanatos returned the nod but offered nothing further, leaning against the wall next to the dark man and mimicking his pose and posture. The unlikely pair stood in companionable silence until dark had fully fallen, and still the conference room hadn't emptied. Severus tried to feel sorry for his former brothers and failed abysmally. He usually did.

When the lamps flared into life, casting blinding spots across their vision, both men turned aside until their eyes became accustomed. The Lair bodyguard studied the Potions Master thoughtfully, his cold grey eyes narrowed. He hadn't seen the man in quite some time, not since he'd blurted out the cause of Nocturne's mysterious illness and fled the brothel. He knew- or at least could guess- what the haunted man had learned; what he didn't know was why he hadn't done anything with it.

Thanatos knew very well the risks he and his ward were taking, and the madam, too. They were all taking their lives in their hands each time they attempted to alter the balance of the chessboard. The average men, even the few above average men that the Dark Lord managed to keep about him in useful service, were easily fooled. They weren't dangerous as anything more than thugs with wands. Snape, however…Snape was a very different story.

A very dangerous story.

Severus Snape was not a man to be underestimated, that had been proven time and time again. He was fearfully clever and very intuitive. One might even call him wise, but that his general persona forbade such a gentle description. Years as a double agent had honed his mind keener than a razor's edge and he had little difficulty seeing through to the heart of a matter. Unlike so many others though, others who also possessed that gift, he managed to still see the branches leading to and from the matter. He didn't just look at the situation. He studied how things arrived at the crux, and all the possibilities for the various futures. He kept a cool head under pressure- usually- and was a powerful wizard and an excellent dueler. He was all you could ask for in an interesting enemy.

And yet, though he never thought he'd think it, he was also a friend of sorts. That he was poison waiting to spill wasn't lost on the blond man, but they understood each other well in their silent communion. They didn't need words to know that they were cut from the same cloth. He weighed all the risks, measured the potential costs, and decided he wanted to know this man better. What made the enigma tick? What propelled his decisions? And, in some cases, what had those decisions even been?

Thanatos had not been at all happy when his ward had attracted Severus Snape's notice, but it was working out as she'd guessed it would. He still wasn't happy with the seeming infatuation on his part, but Lareine was working on him, and perhaps his scare with the glamour-sickness would be sufficient to make him stop questioning things. He nodded slowly and reached into his pocket, grasping the small black pawn in his hand. He held it out to the side, in front of the mostly former Death Eater.

Severus glanced down and arched one eyebrow in surprise, accepting the black marble piece and rolling it between his fingers. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see Nocturne, not knowing what he knew. Did she know he knew? Had Thanatos or Lareine informed her? Despite his misgivings, he found himself nodding in acceptance, and although he silently cursed himself eight ways to Sunday, he also accepted the fact that he wasn't going to go back on it.

Walking side by side, their shoulders not quite touching, the two men made their way to Diagon Alley. They were given a wide berth by the witches and wizards crowding the street. Not everyone knew who they were by sight, but you didn't need a name to know they were deadly and best left alone. The girl at the door, a petite angel with fawn brown hair, smiled slightly at them in recognition, her bodyguard pulling open the door.

Rachel, the receptionist, didn't even bother asking them any questions; she wrote Snape's name in her book in her uselessly ornamental hand and turned the page. She didn't even go to the trouble of alerting Madame Lareine; she would know. Somehow, she just always seemed to know.

They mounted the steps to the top floor of the Lair and entered the plain white door. The owner of the room stood at the far wall near the piano, her hands clutching her elbows as she stared out the window. Neither man could see her face, but they both had an idea of the expression it bore: shuttered, closed off and distant, with just a whisper of the sorrow and derision that floated about her Mona Lisa smile. Her blue black hair rippled down her back, shushing against the sheer black silk that made her alabaster skin glow like moonlight. Thanatos shut the door rather firmer than necessary, startling her, and her hands clutched reflexively for the wand sitting on the piano bench.

Even knowing what he knew, Severus couldn't help but be amused at her wide lavender eyes, so chagrined at being caught off balance. Her eyebrows flickered when she noted the Potions Master but she gave no other indication of knowledge or feeling. Her indifference was infuriating, it was mortifying…it was arousing. Doing his utmost to ignore her, he swept his robes away from him and sat down in one of the chairs at the table, watching Thanatos disappear into his room to get the chessboard.

The other, larger chessboard still sat on its own little table, the pieces scattered or clumped about the squares. The two white rooks still shared a space, clustered by the white pawns. His attention wandered down to the black pawn in his hand and he regained his feet, walking slowly to the board. He could feel Nocturne's heavy gaze on him as he stood by it, deliberating. Finally, he set the pawn near the white king and queen. They were set some distance apart from their allies, a bishop and two pawns the only company near them. He carefully arranged the piece so that it was threatened by both the king and the queen, but unable to threaten either or them. A short distance away, the bishop loomed, a steady but not immediate danger.

Nocturne cocked her head to one side, studying the new dynamic of the board, and nodded thoughtfully. She made no other comment on it.

While the two men set up the second chessboard and began their game, Nocturne crossed to the piano, scooting the bench into comfortable playing range. The music spilled from her hands, slow and stately, and yet not as sorrow-laden as her usual choices. It wasn't sprightly- Severus privately suspected that she was no more prone to silliness than he these days- but it was beautiful nonetheless. His heart didn't ache at the sound of it, the notes wouldn't be invading his dreams with breaths of lavender and heather and forbidden sweet release.

It wasn't until the third game that it occurred to him to be amused. It was so domestic! Here he was in the most celebrated brothel in most of Europe- certainly all of England- and he was playing chess with a silent bodyguard while an equally silent, stunning beauty played the piano. It was nearly the perfect evening, the idyll he'd allowed himself once- very long ago- to envision as the utopia of being surrounded by ones true peers and equals. The thought was almost distracting enough to make him not notice the small pile of ruby colored glass chips sitting in a small glass jar with gold shavings and a file. It was almost enough to make him not follow the connection to the gold locket Nocturne had given the bubbly Luna, to the keen attention the Thanatos and Nocturne had given the gold locket in the marketplace, to the letter from Blaise and the book of Horcruxes and the letter from Draco. But he did notice the small jar, and he did make the connections.

And he stayed silent and played another game of chess.

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At home the next evening, Severus took his meal in his lab and banished the house elves, announcing that he didn't wish to be disturbed. After making sure he had his roast and brandy and plenty of light, they obeyed.

For the first time in a very long time, Severus Snape savored his meal, enjoying the play of flavors and seasonings on his tongue. He marveled at the amber swirl of the brandy in the candlelight as it flared within the curves of the snifter. When he'd eaten his fill, actually feeling sated for the first time he could remember, he separated the rest into carefully equal portions and tipped them into the niffler cages. They swarmed enthusiastically onto their unexpected treat, almost bringing a smile to his face. Not quite; his face hadn't forgotten itself that much.

With the strange peace and contentedness still filling him, he took out parchment, ink, and quill, spreading them over the countertop. Then he began to write, his precise, spiky writing a black wound against the snowy white parchment. It wasn't a long letter, and when he was finished, he sealed it with his wand. Another small flick caused his personal crest to appear in curving lines over the seal. It was acknowledgement in its way; he knew enough to be dangerous, and he was announcing that to a group of people who'd proven that they could be ruthless.

He Apparated into the small village and rented an owl, a tawny barn owl with disinterested eyes. Quietly, so lowly that even the postmaster couldn't hear, he gave the owl its directions. Draco Malfoy, wherever he might be, however long it took the bird to find him. He didn't have to know where his godson was to send him post, only the owl had to know, and they had their own magics to locate their assignments.

He strolled away from the owlery and the village, watching the stars come out as he sauntered down the lane. It wasn't the choice he'd initially thought he would make, and he still wasn't sure he wouldn't reverse it in time, but it had its own temporary peace about it. An owl was winging its way across the sky, seeking a person determined to hide, to deliver a letter, and only the man walking down a country lane with his hands in his trouser pockets knew what it said.

_Dear Draco,_

_You are not alone in yet wondering if I lost the wagers I made; I have never decided either, nor do I think the decision will ultimately be mine to make. Does it make me appear unlike myself if I profess the simple enjoyment of knowing you to still be alive? If it held no other risks to it, I would love to inform your father, for no purpose other than to watch him react with none of his usual aplomb and poise. But, your continued existence holds a great many risks to it, and a great many secrets, so I keep my peace and will continue to do so._

_I don't know the entirety of what I know. I have bits and pieces of the puzzle but not the ones that connect to each other. I cannot piece it together with what I know now. I don't seek the finished picture. You play a very dangerous game, godson, nephew, however you wish me to call you, Draco, and I have no wish to be a part of it. I played a very dangerous game once, and while I put myself on one side, I was quite surprised to come out on the other side of things when all was said and done, and you may make of that what you will. Perhaps I am getting too old, or perhaps my mind has been too untried in these strange years, but your game is quite beyond my capacity to play. _

_Know simply this: for what it's worth, and I have little reason to believe it equals to anything much, I am proud of you. All of you. You have done and are doing what I could and cannot, and you are doing it better than any of us, perhaps even the Headmaster could have dreamed. If you have need of funds or some other innocuous service, then let me know and if you will not be repulsed by assistance in that regard, I would be pleased, but don't tell me anything. _

_I played a game once because I made a bad choice and sought to atone for it; I failed that game. I only pray you do not fail yours. I am not yet sure whose stakes are higher._

_Severus Snape_


	9. Hallowed Be

**Disclaimer: I do not own the main cast, only some of the supporting ones. Jo's just nice enough to let us all play with them without incurring lawsuits.**

_A/N1: As always, please review! Reviews feed the muse, you know, and a satisfied muse means satisfied readers. Hint hint._

_A/N2: Shameless plug here: if there are any artists reading this, I'm really hoping to find some artwork for it, and I must woefully confess that I can't draw a straight line to save my life. If any particular scenes or characters inspire your own muses, please send me a copy or a link or something!_

**Chapter Nine: Hallowed Be**

Severus Snape had only ever been to the village of Godric's Hollow twice before, a very long time ago because he'd been curious. In the spirit of one picking a scab that they know will hamper their healing, he'd gone one night to see the house that James Potter bought for his bride. He had to admit one thing for the insufferable bastard; what he had, he'd worked for. Certainly he'd had to work for Lily Evans, a task she had not made remotely easy for him. Then he'd had to work for the house. No inheritance for James Potter, only son of the line though he may have been. The Potters were a very old, very pure line, and his parents had been incensed at the dirty blood of his Muggle-born fiancée.

The house had been a fine one, large and full of light. Candles burned brightly in the windows, casting joyous light out into the darkness. It had been just after their son was born . He'd watched them through the window, the accustomed feeling of jealousy searing his chest. Potter had been carrying the infant Harry as if afraid he would break it- a thought which now caused Severus to snort, seeing how much the spawn had survived through sheer dumb luck during his school years- with Lily, Lupin, and Black all laughing at him. They were a family, that strange group of friends.

And that was what Snape had envied. Not the love of Lily- he had that in his friendship with her- but in their sense of family. Most of those he called friends were no such thing, and those that were were no family. He'd turned aside and walked from the house without looking back.

The second time had been one fateful Halloween night, after he'd horrifically misheard a garbled prophesy. He'd already turned traitor to the Dark Lord by that point, spying for Dumbledore, but he hadn't even known where they were going or who the prophecy meant when he passed it on. Albus had told him to be at the dingy bar, had told him to pass on what he heard, but not told him what it would mean. Severus didn't learn that until later, when Voldemort Apparated outside of the cheery little house in the quiet Muggle village, Severus standing some distance behind him and Wormtail cringing at his side, his presence necessary as the Secret-Keeper. He'd stayed back, knowing he couldn't protect them, knowing he couldn't stop what was about to happen, but he couldn't look away either. It had taken a great deal of care to keep his face expressionless, to project his famed disinterest, as he heard Potter and Lily pleading for the life of their child. He'd heard Potter sacrifice himself for his wife and child, and then heard Lily's final gesture, the unceasing protection for her son.

Love, the Headmaster had often repeated after the miraculous rebound of the curse. A mother's love had turned back the tide. But Severus had always thought Albus to be wrong; or at least, not entirely correct. It hadn't just been maternal affection which had driven Lily. Love had driven her, surely enough, but the single-minded focus of her child was far too selfish for the redheaded Gryffindor. Love of her family, love of her friends, love of knowledge, of laughter, of rivalries, of the wizard and Muggle worlds at large…Lily had been full of love for many things. Knowing the prophecy, knowing the risks, she'd chosen to make a great defiance in the name of them all. Lily's love hadn't protected only her son, it had protected the entire world, and Albus was always dithering on about her love for Harry.

That second time when he'd left, he'd looked back, looked back at the house that lay in ruins behind him, looked back and tried to see the two bodies buried beneath the rubble. Looked back and heard the screams of the lonely, frightened child trying to make itself heard beneath the remnants of the cheery house. He'd almost walked back, almost dug the infant out of the boards and plaster, but his fell master had been watching him. He'd wanted to walk back, even, certainly not because it was Potter's child, not even because it was Lily's, but simply because no one should have had to learn at so tender an age that life was essentially shite.

There was a third time when he should have been there in the village of Godric's Hollow. It was, after all, where that final, momentous battle had taken place. Severus Snape had not put in an appearance. Acting upon orders from both of his masters, he had kept himself apart, sitting in the crumbling, ramshackle disaster at Spinner's End with a glass of Firewhiskey and a milieu of troublesome thoughts and fears. There were people from both sides looking for him, some to kill him, some to congratulate him. He hadn't gone to see the graves, to see the celebrations, nor to count the dead. If he had, who knew what things would currently be like?

For it had crossed his mind more than once that the battlefield of Godric's Hollow had to be where the students started it. Something had happened there that made it impossible to trust what had once been immutable. Dead suddenly wasn't so dead, and the puzzles had their origins here in the overgrown fields that had once held houses and families and lives. They held families still in their way, for it was quite difficult not to cross over the unceremonious graves of those who had fought valiantly against the former Tom Riddle. The earth had been dug up and simply shoveled back over the bodies. It was impossible to count the true numbers of victims.

Further on, in the plot that had once held the Potter's house, were the graves of the Death Eaters and other supporters of Voldemort. The giants, goblins, and Dementors lay elsewhere, where their bodies couldn't poison the growth, but the humans and werewolves were there, laid out in state with solid granite headstones declaiming the names of those contained beneath them. His steps paced slowly between the rows, reading the names. Peter Pettigrew, taken out by Remus Lupin just before the tired man had fallen to Fenrir Greyback. Rodolphus Lestrange, one of the rare friends, had fallen to the vengeance seeking Neville Longbottom. Next to him lay his wife Bellatrix, killed by Ronald Weasley after she killed Longbottom. The battle was not just about politics or principle, but about family. Rosier, Wilkes, Nott, Avery, MacNair..many of their old crowd lay beneath the abandoned, weed-choked grass. His former classmates, his fellow Death Eaters…all of them believing, passionate fools to the end.

His wandering thoughts took him past the empty village to the Muggle cemetery. The small stone church was still standing, though how he didn't know. Beyond it, a rusting iron fence held the tombs separate from the rest of the world. Hallowed ground, he recalled, the Muggle explanation for magical, sacred places. The gate stuck when he tried to walk through it. When he forced it, the hinges gave way and left the short length in his hands. He dropped it and entered, his dark eyes scanning the headstones until he found what they sought.

James William Potter and Lily Marie Evans Potter. They shared a single stone, with slight depressions indicating the separate graves. Carved lilies trailed along the borders of the time-stained marble and he couldn't help but smirk; despite her name, or perhaps because of it, the Gryffindor lioness had utterly despised those damn flowers. It had been one of Potter's first mistakes, trying to woo her with her namesake. He knelt down before the graves, conscious of the damp dirt seeping through his trousers to his knees but refusing to acknowledge it.

It was impossible to tell how much time passed with him kneeling there. Certainly time enough for the light to change from the overcast grey of afternoon to the stuttering shades of encroaching twilight. Finally he shook his head at his own absurdity and got to his feet, his right knee creaking painfully.

"I don't ask forgiveness of you, Potter," he said quietly. "I've fulfilled my debt to you. I kept your son safe as much as I could, for as long as I could, little enough though he'll ever thank me for it. I don't ask it of you either, Lily. I've done nothing to earn it. But your son…" He closed his eyes briefly, wondering why he was trying to explain things to a grave. They weren't truly in there anymore, their souls weren't still conscious and aware in their bodies. But there he was, with awkward words spilling from his thin lips. "Well, you would know better than I would, but it seems as though your son is still alive. Still alive and still fighting. Potter, you gave him a lot of things that made him insufferable, immature, and unready to face any kind of real danger. But you gave him strength."

He started to walk away, then stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. "Thank the gods, Lily, that you gave him your intelligence to balance it."

Turning again, he convinced himself that he was really going to leave this time, when his eyes were caught by the glint of the dying sun off of something on the grave. Frowning, he knelt back down and brushed away some of the newer growth.

It was a pair of glasses.

Round, battered, and the only gleaming spot on them the spare bit of metal where the paint had worn away. They were smeared with filth and threatened to fall apart in his hands, marks of frequent mending visible under the layers of accumulated dirt. They were achingly familiar and how could they not be? How many damn times had Potter broken them, only to have them fixed by Hermione Granger? They weren't James', of that he was sure; the elder Potter had favored a more oval lens, whereas his son had stuck with the only option the Dursleys ever gave him.

He almost smiled, his lips twitching as he set the glasses back down and once again covered them with the growth. How long had they been there? Not the full three years since the battle, or someone would have noticed before now. The living tomb of Godric's Hollow had been popular immediately after the war; they would have had to have been placed there once the volume of traffic decreased.

And who had placed them there? Had it been Potter? Had it been someone who wished to honor the Boy-Who-Lived?

He scowled. What was history going to call Harry Potter now? The Boy-Who-Lived? The Boy-Who-Didn't-Live? Or, more recently, the Boy-Who-May-Or-May-Not-Have-Lived? How utterly ridiculous. Gathering his cloak about him, he stalked away out of the small cemetery, leaning the gate back in its place, and Disapparated.

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He had thought to go back to his house, but his thoughts wandered in transition and when he opened his eyes, he found himself at Hogwarts. The wards had fallen with the school and despite preparations for the institution to reopen, they had not yet been replaced. It was nearing full dark now, the house-elves leaving for the day. Subservient as they were, no order in the world could make them stay there without natural daylight. Many laughed, but then, house-elves were significantly more sensitive than humans, and there were a great many ghosts about.

He hadn't been there, either. Hogwarts had been his sanctuary, however he might treat his students. It had been his home, his haven. He couldn't have borne to watch it fall.

The elves had made astounding progress in the year since Voldemort had announced his plans. The castle was very nearly rebuilt, outside and in. It would require extensive refurbishing, of course, and none of the former decorations and adornments had been restored, but the structure itself seemed to be in fine condition. The outbuildings were a disgrace, and while he could see the Herbology greenhouses getting future attention, he didn't think the Dark Lord was going to do anything with the burnt-out shell of Hagrid's hut.

Why had they always called it a hut?- he mused, clasping his hands behind his back as he strolled up the path. It had only one room, that was true, but it housed a half-giant with a predilection for large and highly dangerous beasts. It didn't really qualify as a hut. But, it had been called Hagrid's hut for over fifty years; it wasn't going to change now.

He stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, feeling the changes that had overcome the dark wood. It had always been a dangerous place, of course, but to those who knew their dangers it was comforting in its own way. He'd always privately suspected that Rubeus Hagrid was more at home in the forest than in his hut, simply because the creatures of the forest had no fear of him. Severus had often gone in search of ingredients.

On the still nights, when not even the hint of a breeze had rustled the leaves in the trees and on the ground, he had stood motionless and just listened. Usually he listened for the deadly creatures, his ear straining to ensure sufficient warning. But sometimes, when some whimsy or other had taken hold of him, he listened for the unicorn herd.

Very few knew that they inhabited the Forbidden Forest, or knew at all that any wondrous creature could be found within. It was all for the better, really, to keep out the inquisitive students. But abide there they did, their coats shining with gathered moonlight and reflecting the sunlight blindingly. He never tried to approach them; he hadn't been a virgin in a very long time, and the reek of Dark Arts scared off even the most curious golden foal. No, he kept a safe distance away, and smiled to see them running in a blazing herd through the crowded trees and clearings.

He frowned, hearing the siren calls of the unicorns, but they were distinctly different than they had been. They trumpeted not the joyous music of purity and innocence, but the maddening cries of insanity and despair. He had read that unicorns could be driven mad by the overpowering presence of Darkness; it seemed here, finally, was proof of a theory he'd never wanted to believe.

Sighing, he turned away from the forest and continued his aimless wanderings, mildly curious to see where his morbid reminiscence would lead him next. He could see the vaguely silver, translucent glowing of the ghosts emerging into the moonlight. Spells could contain ghosts, could limit them, but nothing could get rid of them entirely. He wondered how the Dark Lord was planning on managing that when the school reopened; presumably, there'd be a very stiff curfew.

Severus Snape wasn't afraid of ghosts; he had too many living ghosts to fear the dead ones. The dead ghosts at least could cause him no harm. He passed the greenhouses and nodded politely to the shimmering form of Pomona Sprout, her incorporeal arms buried to the elbow in the soft dirt around a dying Venomous Tentacula. She nodded back; she'd guessed the truth long before most of the others and bore him no grudge. She was perfectly content to spend eternity tending her beloved plants. She had expended all of her life force in strengthening the plants so that the more deadly of them could fight the invading force. She'd died there, surrounded by the verdant life, and been buried there. It had been only fitting.

He could see starlight bouncing off the smooth white marble of Albus Dumbledore's tomb, untouched by time and weather. He was mostly unsurprised to see fresh flowers draping in carefully woven wreaths against the stone. Stopping before the edifice, he named them one by one. Purple crocus, braided against long stalks of lavender, wisteria, and blue hyacinth. Providing alternating pools of deep color and stark white were dark crimson roses, white oleander, ivory mock orange, and tiny white stars of Bethlehem. His mouth curved more strongly downwards, the selections teasing at his long-dormant inquisitiveness. He hadn't been raised as a pureblood but he had done his damnedest to seem like one, and he knew that every flower had myriad meanings. The type, the color, even the arrangement and combinations could convey entire conversations to the attentive observer.

The roses and wisteria he understood, as he also did the hyacinth and star of Bethlehem. Mourning, constancy, hope…yes, those all made sense. But foresight? Deceit? Distrust? And what was meant by caution? His eye was caught by the dried remains of many other wreaths; these were refreshed regularly, which meant that their meanings still held weight.

He didn't want any part of this!- he reminded himself savagely. He'd told Draco that in the letter he still wasn't sure he'd been wise to send. It had been done though; too late for regrets, and he certainly had enough burden in that regard. He was not here to figure them out. Perhaps if he said it often enough, sternly enough, he could even make himself believe it. He conjured a spray of blue violets and larkspur. They didn't look particularly well together, but the contradiction in both appearance and meaning would have made the old man smile, he thought. Certainly the combination suited him.

A sudden gurgle in the lake caused him to spin around, crouching low with his wand held in a dueler's stance before him. He almost laughed at the equally startled centaur, still standing hock deep in the water. They eyed each other warily, each trying to determine the other's intent.

The centaur was young by the standards of their kind, and surprisingly female. The herds tended to keep their fillies and mares close by, out of the sight of humans. Her horse parts were blue roan, her icy white skin flushed with shame at being caught unawares. Her clear blue eyes and colorless hair seemed familiar in some way, though the Potions Master would stake his life on never having seen her before. "You are the Dark One," she stated uncertainly, her bowstring stretched but her arrow pointing down at the water.

"I am," he confirmed. He thought the centaurs, what few of them remained, had gone as mad as the unicorns. Perhaps most of them had, that this filly was wandering alone. "Are you blood to Firenze?"

"His sister." She blinked slowly. "You knew my brother."

"He had my great respect."

She nodded thoughtfully, releasing the tension in the bow. "Mars is still bright."

"Things are not yet done."

"I didn't think so." She gave him an enigmatic, almost mischievous grin and quickly cantered off into the forest, leaving him standing on the lake edge with a bemused expression. He had never understood centaurs, but he hadn't been lying in regards to Firenze; he had respected the centaur, despite his Divinistic mutterings. At least the centaurs had a true gift, a blood grace; it was much more than Sybil Trelawney had ever been able to boast, the fraudulent, over-sized dragonfly.

The lake was stagnant now and he wasn't sure if it would ever be clean. It held too much death, bodies poisoning the water both on the surface and in the depths. It would have to be entirely drained and refilled; even then, the poisons may have seeped into the soil of the basin. Algae glowed brightly on the surface nearest the shore, creating a ring of light around the lifeless depths.

It hadn't ever had a name, he realized. It was always just 'the lake'. Did it technically have a name, written down somewhere in a dry, dusty book that even Ravenclaws wouldn't touch?

Whatever it's lamentable state of namelessness, the lake had been privy to one of Severus' greatest schoolday triumphs. His sixth year had been a trial, just like every year preceding it, but it had held one major highlight that had sustained him for years; many years, in fact, after guilt should have rendered it imprudent. It had been a sunny day, a hot day in the beginning of June. Black and Potter were tormenting him as usual, with Pettigrew sniggering off the side and Lupin looking torn between his duty, his friends, and his own inclinations of gentle behavior. Black and Potter had stepped too close to the rise just above the bank and Snape had sent them flying into the frigid water with a well placed Banishing Charm.

Lupin had laughed.

It was the memory of that laughter, years later, that had finally prompted Snape to set aside the most bitter edges of his decades-long grudge, and it was the memory of that laughter that had led him to discover that Lupin was rather tolerable. More than tolerable, though he never admitted that to anyone.

Entering the Quidditch Pitch, he crossed the soft and shifting sands to the base of the stands, mounting the rickety and half rotting steps up into the teachers' box. Some had chosen to sit with their houses, but they'd all noted that the students generally felt more comfortable with their professors farther away. He'd sat there legitimately for many years- and hated it- but he'd held fond memories of it once. He sat in the front row and ran his fingers over a deep burn in the wood. The Pitch hadn't seen much action during the fall of Hogwarts; time and neglect had decayed it to its current state, not violence and malevolence. The burn had been there since his seventh year, when he and his dear friend Lily Evans had snuck out after curfew to meet at the Pitch and talk. They'd been silly at first, half-drunk on a bottle of very fine mead nicked from Professor Slughorn's private quarters. She'd pulled out her wand and doodled on the wood, he joining in a moment later, and the result had been a strange design that, once sober, neither had been able to remotely identify.

Dear gods, how he could remember that night. It was one of the last, though it was relatively early in seventh year. But it had been one of the last for them.

_"Did you see Quirke's face?" Lily giggled, passing him back the bottle. "I'm telling you, Severus, that spell was brilliant! Who would have thought it would be so embarrassing to not be able to stop talking."_

_"When one is unable to stop talking, eventually one is unable to keep censoring oneself," he replied loftily, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the inelegant sway that sent him half-reeling off the bench. _

_"I doubt Orla will ever want to go out with him now that he's spewed his attraction for her all over the Great Hall."_

_"She might." He squinted at the level in the bottle and then decided that he'd already had enough; McGonagall was giving a test the next morning. "Now she knows that it's not just a joke or a casual flirt."_

_"True." Lily grimaced, swatting a lock of deep red hair off her shoulder. "You know she wants to have a daughter and name it after herself? How self-centered."_

_"Having a daughter? Yes, you're right. It's absolutely unfair to outnumber the man of the house and surround him with females." He didn't even wince when her elbow dug hard into his ribs._

_But their talk hadn't stayed light for long. As the effects of the mead had worn off, they'd returned to the thoughts that had sent them out to the Pitch in the first place. The unlikely pair sat in silence for a time, watching the stars twinkle high overhead without the stadium lights to obscure them. "You're joining them, aren't you?" she asked when the silence had become too heavy to bear._

_"I already have."_

_She studied him solemnly, then held out her hand. _

_Reluctantly, he rolled up the sleeve of his white uniform shirt, kept pristine and starched by the elves assigned to Slytherin, and revealed the black tattoo on his inner left forearm. It was still raw and pulsing and he drew in a hissing breath when she touched it. She didn't back away though, simply traced the grinning skull and snake with a feather light brushing. He was afraid to look at her face, afraid to see the condemnation that had to be marring her beautiful features._

_"Severus."_

_He swore silently and met her gaze._

_"This was your choice?"_

_"Yes, Lily, it was my choice." He grabbed the bottle and brought it to his lips, but didn't actually drink. "You're going to marry him, aren't you?"_

_"James?"_

_"How many boys are you dating?"_

_She ignored his uncharacteristic attempt at levity. "Yes, I'll marry him when he asks. I love him." She placed a gentle hand on his arm though not, he noticed, the left one. "You're a treasured friend, Severus, but I can't carry around your hatreds."_

_"I know. It's just grating. You're so much better than him."_

_"And always will be," she agreed calmly. "That's not the point."_

_He blinked rapidly, unsure if the mead was affecting his hearing. "You just-"_

_"I'm not blind to his faults, but he is a good man, Severus. I daresay the two of you would never have been friends regardless of circumstances, but had some aspects of the situation been different…" she shrugged delicately. "I think you two would have found respect for each other."_

_"Perhaps."_

_"One thing I don't understand."_

_He waited patiently while she worked up the courage. It was a rule of theirs since third year that anything could be said between them, even if it took time. _

_"You're a half-blood."_

_He chuckled wryly but the sound held little humor. "Would you believe that's not actually Lord Voldemort's vendetta?"_

_"It isn't?"_

_"No. He just says that to appease the purebloods that are the ones most likely to support him. He's a half-blood himself."_

_"No!"_

_"Witch mother, Muggle father. It seems to be the most popular combination, and unlike the other, it throws true magically speaking." His long, graceful fingers traced round and around the rim of the opaque glass bottle. "Few enough know of that, but it's what prompted him to welcome me in when he discovered it. He doesn't truly give two shits about Muggles or half-bloods or any sort of purity. He hates his blood, true enough, but…well…" He studied the long scar on the back of his wrist, the remnant from a Muggle operation as a child to repair a series of fractures. "His father was apparently very difficult to hate."_

_"So hating one man translates to hating an entire group of people?"_

_"It can."_

_"Like it did for you." She sighed and hunched down into her jumper; she wished she'd brought her cloak, but it wasn't supposed to be so cold so early in September. "Your father was a monster, but he was only one man."_

_"What I don't understand is how you don't hate Muggles, given your sister."_

_"Petunia?" She seemed genuinely shocked by his statement and he took the opportunity to drape his heavy black cloak over her shoulders. "Petunia's…"_

_"A harridan?" he suggested, and was answered by a ferocious scowl._

_"She's not that bad," she defended. "She's just jealous. Severus, I'm the only magical one in my family, and I was extremely lucky in that my parents thought it was the most amazing thing since sliced bread and bottled milk. I was older, I was magical, and I was prettier, even as a child. It's a lot to try to live up to, and Petunia has never felt sure of her ability to do so. It's not even that our parents expect the same things of her, because they don't. She just feels the need to excel in the opposite things I do. She's just jealous."_

_"Just jealous. Your sister disowned you and turns absolutely white whenever you're mentioned, and you say she's just jealous." He shook his head disbelievingly. "You're a much better person than she is."_

_"Than you are?"_

_"Much," he agreed instantly. "I'll never be nor have I ever been a good person, Lily."_

_"You might surprise yourself one day."_

_"I doubt it."_

_"I don't want to face you across a battlefield."_

_One arm came around her shoulders, hugging her awkwardly. "You won't have to. I'm going into my Potions apprenticeship; I'll be far too valuable to waste as a common foot soldier."_

_"You know what I meant."_

_"I do. We'll be working at cross-purposes. It doesn't necessarily mean that one of us is ever going to win over the other."_

_"Oh, that's depressing as hell," she snarled. Silence laid claim over them again and she braided a section of her hair into his. "How will we be able to stay friends?"_

_"I think our friendship is more in danger of your boyfriend finding out than my master. Ow! Shit, Lily!"_

_She glared at him, giving him a cruel, satisfied smile as he clapped a hand to his bleeding scalp. The section of hair, one pitch black, one blood red, still lay braided together across her hand, only the black now had bits of roots and scalp attached to it. "Serves you right."_

_"We'll figure it out, Lily. We always have before." He reached for his wand, the pain clearing away the last of the mead, and neatly severed the braid from her hair, four or five inches falling unsupported into her palm. "And no, that's not optimism. It's fact."_

_Smiling ruefully, she further severed the braid in two and conjured wax onto the ends to preserve the plait, handing one across to him. "A souvenir," she told him. "When you look at this, you'd best remember that _fact_."_

_"You know I shall," he whispered hoarsely. Things were changing by their own choices, and he already had the sinking feeling that he'd gotten himself into more than he knew. He'd pursued the Dark Arts since childhood as a means of protection; if he could out-hex the other kids, if he could go on the offensive…if he could have just protected his mother….but he didn't tell Lily any of this, despite their rule, just as she didn't tell him what she did closeted away with Dumbledore once or twice a week. They were growing apart or growing up, he couldn't tell which; he only hoped that they weren't one and the same. "What's that?" he growled, shielding his eyes from the sudden, blinding brilliance of the Pitch lights._

_"The Hufflepuff team," she answered when the spots had cleared. "I guess their new captain wants them ready for all conditions. Bit of a nutter, that Bagman." _

_"He's got prospects for national league," he explained, knowing that she didn't bother to keep up on Quidditch. He had always suspected it was mostly to annoy Potter and Black. "Why did they have to come out tonight?"_

_"Oh, just glare at them, Severus; they'll go away."_

_She succeeded in startling a laugh out of him, the low, rich laugh, the true laugh that almost no one living had ever heard. As the Hufflebuff captain berated his yawning teammates, they snickered their way through the rest of the bottle of mead, stumbling back to the dormitories only a few hours before breakfast. _

Severus shook his head at the memories, running his fingers over the bizarre shape burned into the wood. Several of the professors had commented on it in later years, wondering where it had come from; he'd never enlightened them. It would have involved giving away too many secrets that weren't solely his own.

The clouds that had been threatening overhead all day finally broke, cracking with a sharp peal of thunder and loosing down a stinging rain. Because there was no one there to see him, he abandoned dignity and hiked up the trailing edges of his robes, sprinting down the stairs and across the lawns into the castle. The storm worsened, the sounds reverberating through the empty stone halls. Heaps of armor lay in corners, one piece barely indistinguishable from another for the thick coating of rust. Many of the paintings had mildewed beyond recognition, and those that hadn't stared at him morosely. He toured the dungeons, his steps ringing through the Slytherin common room, the Potions classroom, his office, and former quarters. The echoes followed him up the stairs to the Ravenclaw rooms, to the Dark Arts classroom, to the Hufflepuff den, to the Great Hall…so many memories, and so very many ghosts, following him and stalking him and chasing him through the lonely spaces.

The Fat Lady, her pudgy face discolored with damp, glared at him sourly. "Haven't you done enough?"

"No," he answered softly, startling her. He could see her eyes were red and puffy, the paint smeared in tracks down her cheeks. "No, I have not begun to do enough to atone."

"What do you want?" she asked more quietly.

"I want in."

"Password?"

He stared at her incredulously, lost for words. "Um…please?"

She essayed a small, sad smile and swung open to reveal the portrait hole.

Minerva had always been inordinately proud of the ruckus of the Gryffindor common room, however much she got on their cases about it. She was thrilled that her cubs felt themselves enough of a family to make that much noise and commotion. Slytherins had such a complicated hierarchy that much of the time had been spent in plots and conspiracies to topple the current upper echelon. Ravenclaws had almost always had their noses stuck in books. Their studies were done in silence or in quiet groups, very businesslike for the most part. The Hufflepuffs had clumped, of course, but it was a quiet one. They took enjoyment in each others company but they were usually doing things, accomplishing things.

Gryffindors alone held the reputation of playing in their common rooms, everything from chess to Exploding Snap to very, _very_ famous (and infamous) games of Truth or Dare and Strip Poker. The Weasley twins had created wide-scale chaos with their pranks and inventions, and it was always entertaining when the Gryffindors started spreading the doctored candies through the school. It was immature, certainly, but at least his Slytherins were wise enough to be wary of anything offered them, thus the immaturity was really only at the expense of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The lions had made the room their home, staking their claims and defending them silently and adamantly.

Minerva had gone on and on about it in staff meetings. There, in an armchair near the fire, had sat Potter, the edge of a table just within reach. The armchair directly next to his, getting the same tiny stretch of table, had been Weasley, while just there had sat Granger, her books and assignments sprawled over every available inch of space. There by the window, when she had not been hovering over Potter's shoulders, had been Miss Weasley, her youngest child's imagination painting a distant look in cinnamon colored eyes. Near enough to be a nuisance but too far to be within easy pegging distance were the Creevey brothers. At the biggest table, Percy Weasley had reigned for years, with the twins and Lee Jordan a few feet awake wreaking havoc and interfering with his concentration. Immediately by the fire, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil had sat giggling over horoscopes and dream diaries on transfigured poofs made to resemble to furniture in their beloved Trelawney's North Tower. A short distance away, Finnigan, Thomas, and Longbottom had sprawled on couches, with Spinnet, Bell, and Johnson perched on top of the cluster of armchairs near the Weasley girl. Each student had his or her own space, and McGonagall knew them all. She knew what they wanted to do with their lives often before they did, and while she wasn't proud of all of them, she had reason to be proud of most of them. Even the Dunderheaded Divination Duo had acquitted themselves admirably in their training.

Parvati was dead now; dead twice as it turned out. He'd tested the two sigils on her body as soon as it was delivered to the Ministry by an exceedingly puzzled Vincent Crabbe and an irate Viktor Krum. Parvati was not the twin that had poured vitriol over the castes of India. No, the sundered twin had been Ravenclaw Padma, who had wanted to pursue the field of Arithmancy in healing research. Professor Vector had been beyond thrilled, and was laying out paperwork for an apprenticeship near the end of her sixth year, to be affective after her NEWTs. Padma had never gotten to take her NEWTs because Hogwarts had closed, and Parvati had never gotten to take them because she'd died in a decrepit manor house outside of Little Hangleton.

Had they realized their own potential? Had they actually been able to look at their plans for the future before setting them aside in favor of fighting battles that had started long before any of them were born? Some of them, perhaps. Potter, Weasley…neither of them had ever given much thought to their careers after Hogwarts. They were too busy playing Quidditch or getting into trouble. He knew the youngest Weasley wanted to teach, though she was torn between Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms. She'd braved his wrath to ask his advice one afternoon after class, and he'd been so shocked by the request that he'd almost forgotten to be unpleasant. It was further proof that she was her mother's daughter. Apparently common sense was reserved solely for the female line. Brown, he knew, wanted nothing more than to be a true Seer, but she'd never shown a glimmer of aptitude past the desire. The twins and Jordan, of course had their joke shop, and Percy his Ministry officiousness. Longbottom wanted to study plants, while Finnigan and Thomas hadn't ever given it a thought. Thomas was still thinking about going back to the Muggle world for University when he was finished with Hogwarts, so as to put off the decision another few years. Granger hadn't decided either. She wanted to do a little of everything, and that genius hadn't yet concentrated itself into a specific arena. Then, too, there was the unspoken understanding that she was waiting to make plans to see if they were going to survive all of it.

Ginevra Weasley and Hermione Granger had been the ones to think, the ones to plan, the ones to be cautious. Weasley had never specified her desired teaching level, and Severus had understood the implication that she was wanting tips on how to help Dumbledore's Army with some of the more difficult spells. Granger had been the enigma, but she had been leaning heavily towards Arithmancy and curses. McGonagall thought the chit was wanting to try and apply Arithmancy to the theory behind the Unforgivables to try and develop a counter-curse of some kind of preventative potion. Who really knew, when all was said and done? McGonagall was dead, starved and tortured to death before they'd hung her body ignominiously on the Ministry wall. She'd forgiven him, she said, and he'd always wondered if she really had or if she just wanted to die with a clean conscience. She'd been a strict teacher, always, and the sternness that he had hated in her as a student he'd come to admire and respect as an adult. He'd been genuinely fond of Minerva, despite their House rivalries and her tendency to treat him as though he were still a gawky, awkward fifth year. Perhaps in her eyes, he still was.

Severus shook his head once again, hearing the leather hair thing shifting against his cloak. He reached up and pulled it out, twining it about his long fingers as he took a last look around the lion's den. He'd only ever been in there during the silent summers, when all the Heads renewed the wards and spells on the school. He'd only ever seen it alien and desolate, but never before had there been scorch marks flaring up the walls nor the rug-less floor besmirched in dark stains that must have been blood.

He let his wandering feet take him where they would so long as it was away from Gryffindor tower. Why was he here? Severus Snape was not a man given to nostalgia and wistful reminiscence. He was a dark, dour man prone to sulking in his house and eschewing any attempts at socializing. He was a man haunted by his own poor choices and the echoes of lavender and heather and piano laments.

If he was honest with himself- which he truly did try to be- he knew it was because of the students. He'd always known that they possessed fierce passions; it was one of the things that made Quidditch matches so dangerous. They'd shown over and over in their time as pupils that they had the ability to stick stubbornly to a course of action be it good, bad, or idiotic. Most of them were too young, too stubborn to be flexible, but those who could influenced all of them. The Littlest Weasley, he recalled, had been one of the bearers of that responsibility. He'd heard rumors that she'd been the one to smooth his godson's introduction into the Junior Order. When McGonagall escorted the trembling Draco into the Room of Requirement, everyone had fallen silent to glare or stare. Tossing her flaming hair over her shoulder, Ginevra had crossed the room, slapped him hard across the face, then invited him to be her dueling partner for the evening.

But when had they all gotten so damn smart? How had the Gryffindors engineered a game so deeply convoluted that two generations of Slytherins were unable to fathom it? Albus had tried to fashion Potter as a weapon but failed against the histrionics of the teenage years. Now the children, no longer children, had created themselves as weapons. Were they as hard and soulless as they seem?

There was no doubt in his mind that they had sacrificed Padma Patil; young Crabbe showed all the symptoms of a bout with the Imperious Curse. For certes, the hulking Neanderthal lacked the wit to fake such a condition. NO, the players had orchestrated the murder of their friend with calculated precision. It was that, perhaps more than anything else, that struck at him with fear: they had learned that if you were willing to live with yourself afterwards, the ends could and did justify the means. They'd learned the value of martyrs and where circumstances didn't present them with one, they created one.

Charlie, he realized suddenly. Charlie Weasley had to have been one of their sacrifices. What was it Draco had said? _I hope you enjoyed the gift of Charlie Weasley_…Blaise's letter had cautioned against ending up like the Dragon; could they mean Charlie? He had, after all, worked with dragons for all of his adult life. If so, then Draco represented someone else within the odd system of simple and completely unfathomable codes in the letter. They'd deliberately allowed Charlie to die, deliberately allowed his body to be stolen to verify his identity.

He was barely conscious of his robes billowing about him as he walked. The Great Bat of the Dungeons…He passed the slashed and ruined tapestry of the dancing trolls, barely giving it a glance.

Did he want to be involved? His curiosity had been fully aroused, his formidable intellect dismantling and analyzing everything for possible clues. He could no more stop thinking than stop breathing, it was simply part of his nature. His thoughts were dangerous despite the unexpected breath of life they'd given him, they were deadly and yet- he had more experience than any of them in playing the double game of lies and truths. He had hidden his loyalties for years and hid them still.

They were after the Horcruxes- the book had proven that- and with the disposal of Nagini the path would be clear to kill the Dark Lord. They'd already put in motion the toppling of his political machinations after his death; the other nations would see to that. But what did they plan to put in its place if they succeeded?

He stopped before the stone gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase up the Headmaster's office, considering it thoughtfully. Headmistress', he corrected himself. Her tenure had been short but it was Minerva's password he must try to guess, not Albus'. It would be more challenging but at least he would be spared the indignity of having to list off every sweet known to man.

"Haggis?" he ventured after a moment.

The gargoyle remained where it was, staring just past him with an unblinking gaze.

"Bagpipes?"

Nothing.

"Claymore?"

"Long live Scotland."

"Gryffindor."

"Animagus."

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!"

"Catnip!"

"Sheepfucker!"

He stared in shocked amazement as the gargoyle shifted to let him pass. "Good Lord, Miner va…" Then again, it was an excellent deterrent against student invasions.

To his greater surprise, the spacious office at the head of the stairs was little changed. A clan tartan had been draped over the mantle and the desk bore small traces of the stern Scottish woman: the smoky peat whisky she preferred to Ogdens, a gold framed picture of her in graduation robes many years before, a small pile of bobby pins on one corner of the desk…they were all things that he associated with his former teacher, colleague, and friend, but it was odd to see them set against the more familiar backdrop of Dumbledore's office. It had been untouched by the fall of the school, shielded and protected by countless enchantments.

The biggest change was the large portrait of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, his half-moon spectacles gleaming over his too-vivid eyes and one long-fingered hand curling around the nearly knee-length beard. His robes were as gaudy in portraiture as they had been in life, a bright cerulean to match his eyes, embroidered with gold and silver zodiac signs and twinkling with tiny gems. It was sleeping, or appeared to be, and Snape wondered if it had every awoken. They'd been unsure if it would, as he'd spent so much of his life essence keeping himself alive long enough to try to teach Potter what he needed to know. If the portrait had awoken, it had been kept a very closely guarded secret amongst the Order.

He sank down into the wing-backed chair on the guest side of the desk; his chair, as he was accustomed to thinking of it. He could still see the slightly darker patches where his blood had soaked into the fabric after meetings and revels, when the information that needed to be passed left the cleaning spells too long delayed. He rested his right ankle against his left knee, elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his fingers laced together, the index fingers resting pensively against his lips. It was his natural position in the sanctuary of the office; he had felt almost safe there, as he didn't anywhere else. But perhaps that had simply been because he was most often in the room with the Headmaster.

He could still remember when the room had stopped being safe. School hadn't even been out a month yet, but Albus had called him into his office late one evening. The Headmaster had been gone for several days, coming back and going straight into the infirmary to consult with Poppy. Severus had been wary going in, especially when Albus remained seated with the sleeves of his robe draping down over his hands.

The entire story had come out, slowly, of Albus trying to destroy Marvolo's ring on his own. Severus could have wrung his neck had it not been for the full and very obvious punishment of the ruined, blackened, withered hand. The presence of the ring slowed the decay, but it had only taken a moment's glance to know that it couldn't be stopped entirely. His body would destroy itself from the inside out, painfully and completely, and Harry Potter wasn't ready.

He had known that the Headmaster was going to ask something difficult of him; the Headmaster had never, _never_ asked anything easy of him. So, he had been surprised when Albus had merely requested that he do everything he could to help Draco. Then Narcissa and Bellatrix had shown up at Spinner's End a week later and Severus knew he'd been set up for potentially the most heinous crime of the wizarding world. He'd made the Vow when Narcissa asked; how could he not, with Bellatrix practically drooling to report some shred of evidence of his infidelity to the Dark Lord. And once the two sisters had gone, once Pettigrew had drunk himself to oblivion on particularly potent elf-made wine, he had gone to Hogwarts and bellowed at the Headmaster.

Albus sat through it patiently, listening intently with the cunning, vaguely paternal air he almost always had, and then promptly congratulated Severus on having the courage to make the Vow. For one of the few times in his life, Severus Tobias Snape had been entirely speechless. Albus had planned this. Well, he hadn't planned it precisely, but he'd had a good instinct for the possibility and prepared to take the most advantage of it. Severus had raged, but for every argument he presented, Albus had a better one. Draco's soul was intact, not shattered, and not sundered, and killing anyone- much less the hero of the wizarding world- would destroy that.

I'm dying, he had said, holding out the wreck of a hand as immutable proof. This way, his death would still gain them time and opportunity. It would give them information. It wasn't enough, but Severus had made a Vow; to deny it would be to die himself, and then two brilliant minds would be out of the running. Albus wouldn't allow. He even threatened to have Severus take a second Vow, one to force him to uphold the first. He hadn't threatened that when the young Death Eater had crawled to him and begged forgiveness so many years ago, which was why Severus finally acceded. He promised, though didn't Vow, to kill the man he loved as a mentor and father.

"So deep in thought," a rheumy voice commented, drawing Severus' attention sharply upward. "I don't think I've seen that look in some few years."

"Five years, old man."

The portrait was awake now, and smiling down at him benignly. "Ah, yes, where does the time go?"

"Albus…"

The Headmaster's smile grew at the familiar, warning tone in the dark velvet voice, then grew grave. "How have you fared, my boy?"

"My boy," he ruminated. "You called Potter that."

"You'll recall I've been calling you that since before he was born. You two were very similar, you know, for all that you'll never admit it."

"Perhaps there's time yet," he drawled, enjoying the rare look of confusion on his companion's face.

"Ehh?"

"Don't tell me you don't know, old man."

"I have been quite neglected these past years," Albus replied serenely. "I know that my tomb has received attention, but I have not been visited since the school was closed."

"When it fell, you mean."

"Hogwarts has not fallen," corrected the Headmaster. "Nor shall it ever so long as its principles are upheld."

"The curriculum is being planned by Lord Voldemort; how many principles do you really think there are going to be?"

"And yet you still haven't answered my question. How have you fared in these interim years?"

Sighing, Severus drew a hand down his face, his calloused fingertips lingering on the beginnings of a narrow goatee. He had had one when he was younger and it had suited him; prudence in time, allowing him to focus further on the mystery of the chess gambits, had prompted him to start it again. It needed a trimming along the sides, the excess stubble on his jaw needed to be scraped away, but it would do. If nothing else, he was looking forward to seeing if Nocturne reacted to it, a thought that was as unsettling as amusing. "I have survived," he said finally, the silk and steel of his voice wringing all the ironies from the simply words. "And I have learned to be polite."

White eyebrows rose, nearly disappearing under the rim of the spangled hat. "Politeness, Severus? You?"

"Indeed."

Silence stretched between them, at once comfortable and unfamiliar. Finally, Albus regarded him , searching his face for clues. "Tell me."

"You'd be proud of them, sir," he answered quietly. "They have the whole of the wizarding world in chaos. You'd despair of them, and weep for them, but there would be pride, as well. They're doing what you were always too _good_ to do."

"Ah, but what price peace if it comes at the demand of the human soul?" he asked sadly, his fingers getting caught in his long beard as he stroked it. He struggled briefly to free them, his mobile face creased in a frown, before regaining his poise and dignity. "And what of Tom?"

"Bureaucratic and confused," Severus summarized. "He is trying to make something great but lacks the fundamentals to make it work. An empire born in death and decay can never truly be great. The great ones end that way, of course," he added, purely to be perverse, "but they don't begin that way."

"Which children?"

Severus took a long time to answer, weighing each possible response carefully. He eventually decided on the truth so far as he knew it and could explain. "I don't know."

"You don't-"

"I said you'd be proud of them, Albus." He went on to tell the man in the portrait all of the events, starting with the final battle and spiraling out through the webs of intrigue and murder. It didn't grow any more straightforward for the telling, nor did the luxury of hearing it aloud afford any kind of clarity or realization. The epiphanies, if they came, would be much harder won than that. Dumbledore's frown grew deeper as the report progressed. When at last Severus finished his soft recitation, both men sat lost in thought.

"You're right," Albus agreed in a whisper. "Pride and despair, mingled together. Those poor children."

"Hardly children any more. Never truly children, in all factuality."

"No, I suppose not. How much of a chance do they have, Severus?"

"I don't know. Their gambit has been at least three years in the making, and involves turns that I can't fully understand." Severus hated to admit any deficiency in his understanding, but this was beyond him at the moment. "I intend to learn as much as I can, of course, but I don't know how successful I shall be." He took a deep breath and looked directly into the subdued twinkling of the very blue eyes. "You aren't Whitehair, are you?"

Albus gazed at him with infinite sadness. "No, my dear boy, I am not. I am not any part of their plans, I fear."

"I had thought…that is, for a moment, I had…."

"It is difficult to accept finality," he said gently. All these years, and still he was learning lessons from the old man. "I am sorry to grieve you, my boy, but I am well and truly dead."

"At my hand," he completed bitterly, aware of the grimace that flashed across the painted face.

"At my own, if anything. I forced you to do it, as you were too quick to remind me all through that year. So long a year, and yet so very, very short. Too short."

"Nothing could have prepared him so well as failure. At least he has learned from it."

"You think Harry is still alive then?"

"I think it very possible. Very likely. Am I certain? No. I could in fact only tell you one for certain, and even then my mind cries out at the impossibility of it."

"Improbability, Severus. Nothing is truly impossible."

"Then come back from the dead and help them, Albus."

"For all your subtlety, you can be profoundly literal when you choose to be," the old man disparaged. "However," he continued, watching the younger man eye him warily, "I can still help them."

"How?"

"By reminding you of your promise."

"What?"

"You promised to do whatever you could to aid Draco," he informed him. "That promise doesn't end with my death, and it seems that these children will need your help. They are stymied by something, or slowed, or something that impedes their progress. It is entirely possible that that obstacle is something which your status might help them remove."

"They'd kill me as soon as set eyes me."

"I think you underestimate their ruthlessness. From what you've told me, I doubt that they're still bound by the prejudices of their younger years."

Severely repressing the urge to swear fluently and fluidly, the Potions Master took the time to carefully consider what his old friend was asking him. "You wish me to abandon neutrality."

"Neutrality worked for my dear friend Mister Ollivander for many years, Severus, but it has never worked for you. Not in school, not after, and not now." His gaze looked out the filthy window, measuring the pearly light attempting to streak the far horizon. "Morning is coming, Severus, and it is only the first of many bloody mornings, but you have lived with those all your life, as have these children. They will need your guidance."

Severus nodded abstractedly, suddenly finding the means to answer a very old question. "Albus, was there ever a student here named Lareine?"

Albus chuckled dryly. "Ah, my boy, surely you don't believe that to be a real name?"

"No, but you knew Voldemort was a boy named Tom, and you knew he was going by it here at school. What about her?"

"Are you infatuated with her, Severus?"

He thought of steady blue eyes and fading blonde hair, only to have the image replaced in his mind by piercing lavender eyes that seemed to see straight through him. He didn't answer.

Perhaps because his optimism blinded him in death as in life, Albus took that to mean what he wished. It was either amusing or frightening how both Dumbledore and Voldemort leaped to the same hopeful conclusion. "Her name was Olivia Walsham, and she unfortunately had to leave in her fourth year. She continued her education as best she could, and I daresay we assisted as much as she allowed us to, but La Reine Fée was the pet name given her by Imelda Elantris, one of the many DADA professors. She was a tiny little thing as a child, though I hear she matured into a very beautiful woman."

"Why did she have to leave?" he asked, dark eyes shifting back and forth through empty space as he siphoned the important information from the fond recollection.

"She's a halfblood. When her mother died, her father pulled her from school. She ran away and lived in Knockturn Alley, supporting herself in rather dubious fashion."

Thinking of the supreme elegance that was the Syron's Lair, Severus privately decided that dubious had benefited her. He remembered Professor Elantris, who had been there his seventh year, but he had paid no attention at all to the lower forms so it struck him as no surprise that he didn't remember the child that had once been the infamous madam. It also meant that she could not possibly be one of the students. It was one thing to disguise someone as a member of Dumbledore's Army or the Order of the Phoenix; it didn't make sense, not with the degree of calculated recklessness in their plans, to plant someone as a nonentity.

But then, that was exactly what they had done with Nocturne, hadn't they? And presumably Thanatos.

His head was aching again, but he could feel the cobwebs slowly clearing from the years of indifference. "You, old man, are horrifically, inexcusably, and unforgivably manipulative."

"You will help them?"

"If they allow it," he sighed.

Severus remained in the Headmaster's Office until light had banished the ghosts back to their enforced diurnal sleep, chatting and plotting with the portrait's figure until his eyes were spinning with factoids and fatigue. He bid Albus good-day, uncertain if he truly meant good-bye, and returned to the grounds.

The fallen Hogwarts was no less eerie by day than by night; rather the destruction was more visible and less dignified, harsher without the more forgiving silver of moonlight. He stopped beside the mangled Whomping Willow, remembering a great many darker meetings with it. One of its branches twitched but it was hardly frightening. He snorted when he realized he was feeling sorry for a plant, but it too had its reputation, and it could hardly live up to it in such a state. He laid a hand against the knotted trunk, feeling it shudder beneath his touch and then fall entirely still.

Kneeling down to brush away dirt and leaves, Severus cleared away the entrance to the tunnel towards Hogsmeade, slipping down into the dank stone passage. He had to duck nearly the entire way, but it meant that unlike his last trip through it, his forehead wouldn't end up covered in bruises, lumps, and abrasions courtesy of Sirius Black. He emerged into the Shrieking Shack, astonished to find it little changed from his last time present.

It was still dingy, of course, still battered and half falling apart, but that was to be expected. No one was going to come along and fix it up, of course, not if they thought it was the most severely haunted building in Britain. Yet, there were differences. On the side of the stairs, a phoenix was burned into the wood with the edge of a wan, a snarling defiance in the face of defeat, or hope in the name of victory, he wasn't sure which. He traced it with its fingers, so similar to the etching in the teachers' box of the Pitch. Youthful defiance….

His memories had taken place upstairs, coming face to face with Sirius Black, being knocked out by three thirteen year olds…with that in mind, he decided to see what was in the basement, skirting around the entrance to the tunnel so he could tread very carefully down the stairs. They held his weight, if only just, but he half thought a levitation charm wouldn't be amiss on the way back up.

The cellar was littered with debris and his eyes widened as he automatically catalogued and identified them. Overturned cauldrons, the dregs of old potions solidified in the curves. Clumps of hair pinned to the wall in small envelopes with hastily but neatly scrawled labels. Maps and sketches and battle plans, diagrams of wand motions for complex curses and attacks, owl roosts, wrappings of packaged foods- mostly junk foods- and empty butterbeer bottles…they had come here!

He walked about the cramped space in shock, the barest of incredulous smiles tugging at his thin lips. Half of them believed dead, the other half missing, and they'd all come here, practically in Hogwart's backyard. He could see empty bottles of potions ingredients and knew that, at least in the beginning, Polyjuice had played a part, but they had either discovered a way past its limitations or they had learned something better. But their plots, their schemes, their misdirections, they had all started here in this very room! A large map of the world was pinned to one wall, the damp blurring the lines and crumbling the edges, with small paper cut outs of chess pieces pinned in various places. There were far too many pieces for any normal board but he'd come to expect that. He was relieved to find several clustered in England, more specifically in London, but each major piece outside of England was surrounded by a clump of pawns. They had planned it carefully and thoroughly, assigning them their tasks.

He heard the creak of cracking glass and glanced down under his boot, spying a clear orb a little less than twice the size of a Snitch. It seemed to be sitting atop a grave, or at least that's what he gathered from the raised section of packed earth and the headstone with the phoenix burned into it. He bent over and picked it up, cradling it in the bowl of his hand, trying to remember why it was familiar. As he puzzled, the misty smoke within turned a blinding red.

"Longbottom's Remembrall," he whispered, the smoke clearing back to its usual colorless consistency. McGonagall had crowed about it, how Potter had caught it from a fifty foot drop his first ever time on a broom. Underneath the Remembrall was a dull silver Auror's badge, filthy and tarnished and entirely unreadable. He didn't have to be able to read it to know that he'd just connected part of the puzzle.

Neville Longbottom was indeed dead, but they hadn't found his body. They'd taken it, here, and buried it where he could watch over their hurried preparations. Polyjuice took a month to cook completely but he highly doubted that they'd hidden here for a month. No, some wiser head had prevailed, and their plans had been made before the battle took place, just in case. Just in case they failed. Just in case they lost. If the battle turned against them, they knew they still had the means to their revenge and their goal.

But Longbottom seemed to be touring the brothels of Spain, in which spells at the doors prohibited the entry of one who was Polyjuiced or wearing a glamour, which argued that the faux Longbottom was doing neither. The spells were the envy of the British Aurory long before Voldemort's return so they were nothing to underestimate. Rather than take the unreasonable chance of failing the spells, it was much easier to simply make sure that their candidate, their face and the figurehead, wouldn't trip the triggers of the spell. And the only person he knew who qualified, other than the dead boy, had once worn a shiny silver Auror badge pinned to the front of their robes.

Nymphadora Tonks was alive, and masquerading in Spain. It did help explain why Longbottom had started patronizing males; Tonks was wild, and always had been, and had been known to swing any way the broom handle spun before falling in love with Remus Lupin. She was the best, and the only, choice to be the hapless Longbottom.

Tonks was in Spain, pretending to be Neville Longbottom.

His mind spun with the implications of the idea, and with that, the resolve that had begun to renew itself in Dumbledore's office cemented itself firmly in the plan beginning to take root. Yes, he'd have to go see Lareine if it were to work but….but if it worked….it looked as if he'd found his way into the Junior Order after all.


	10. Theseus' Thread

**Disclaimer: As always, the majority of the characters do not belong to me, but to the great Jo. All hail and reverence.**

_A/N: As always, please read and review, because reviews feed the muse, but a special thank you to the reviewers from WIKTT; now I FINALLY now how to get there! And, this chapter was supposed to have significantly more in it, but it got to be long enough that I decided it would make more sense to just split the chapter, so now there will be yet another one to have to wait for. Smile!_

**Chapter Ten: Theseus' Thread**

Lareine sighed with relief as she stepped into the Syron's Lair, her arms burdened with purchases. Diagon Alley was always too hot or too cold in her opinion. It entirely lacked any kind of middle ground.

"Madame?"

She turned to face Rachel, her plump receptionist. "Yes, what is it?"

"Lord Snape is here."

"What?" Carefully sculpted eyebrows, several shades darker than her fading hair, rose incredulously. She shifted her grip on the items to allow a better view of the nervous woman. "Nocturne is working tonight, he knows that."

"He…he doesn't seem to be here for Nocturne, Madame."

The formidable woman blew out a sharply frustrated breath. The strings of the bags were starting to cut into her fingers and wrists and she had a great deal to be doing, things that were much better uses of her time than playing twenty questions with her employees. "Rachel, where is he and why is he here?"

Rachel flushed a brilliant crimson, her long, painted nails running along her peacock feather quill. "He's in your private chambers," she answered hesitantly, "and he has flowers."

"Flowers?!" Only a quick dive on Lareine's part kept the parcels from tumbling to the ground. Her blue eyes blinked owlishly, her lower lip disappearing between her teeth. "Lord Snape?"

"Yes."

Shaking her head, Lareine wasted no further time in hustling to her quarters, wondering how he'd even gotten in there. The door was charmed to her touch and her touch alone; no one else should have been able to enter. She brushed her cheek against the plain wood of the door, pushing it open with her elbow and hip.

"Good evening."

She looked sharply at the owner of the deep, velvety voice, standing over the cauldron in which a brand new batch of contraceptive was bubbling. "How did you get in?"

He held up one of her gloves, turned inside out. "They were on your office desk." His pitch eyes glanced back at her over his shoulder. "I'm disappointed. Always before your potions have been your first concern."

Her frown growing deeper, she nonetheless set her packages on the table and crossed the room. "It needs to stew for a full moon cycle before the next step," she commented, adjusting the heat very slightly with her wand. "Rachel said you had flowers?"

"Yes, you just placed your bags atop them."

With a startled oath, the madam rescued the now rather squashed bouquet. "You're in a singular mood today." She gave him a dark look and found a crystal vase in which to display the bundle of crocus blossoms.

"The Dark Lord is still anxious for a match between us to work," he replied, taking off his cloak and draping it over a chair. "I suddenly find it advantageous to give him the impression of its success."

"Do you?" she asked, stalling for time. Without the cloak, she could see that he wore a very fine set of dress robes, immaculately tailored to his lean figure. They were black, naturally, but trimmed in hunter green embroidery with silver snakes for clasps. He'd done something with his hair, as well, she realized, eyeing the two thin, intricate braids that held the forelocks off his face. It was very old style in the wizarding world, all but forgotten now, but it had once meant that the bearer of the braids was of mixed or impure blood. He was making a statement that few would be able to understand, but then, he was certainly perverse enough to wring amusement from it. Severus Snape would never be an extraordinarily handsome man, certainly no match for the cold beauty of Lucius Malfoy, but for the first time in their acquaintance she saw him as a genuinely attractive man.

And was instantly suspicious. What had provoked this alteration in his appearance? One thing that Lareine counted on was that people were predictable and for the most part unchanging. She didn't trust change at face value.

An uneasy prickle ran down her spine and she busied herself with arranging the flowers so as to hide it. She'd been enjoying her share of the games; the risks had given an edge to her appetites that had been long-lacking. Now, though, she wondered how the uneven balance had shifted.

"Indeed," he said simply, noting the irritated flush to her cheeks.

"How so?"

"I thought we might discuss it over dinner. Café Dionysus said they had reservations open for tonight."

"Dinner, Severus?"

"Dinner, Lareine. An evening tradition consisting of the partaking of food. I trust you are familiar with the concept?"

Thrown off guard by the silken offensiveness, she spoke without thinking. "You know, this could be why your students hated you."

To her very great surprise, his only response was a low chuckle. "Shall I take that as a yes to the invitation?"

Her mind spun with theories, each as unsupported as the last. What she did know for certain, however, was that the restaurant he'd named was a very upscale establishment favored by the Inner Circle of Death Eaters. It was a prestige mark, a gossip focus. The Dark Lord himself had been known to eat there on a semi-regular basis. It guaranteed that even if the despot wasn't present that evening, he would still know of the outing before the night was out.

That thought was strangely comforting. It was easier to describe their 'date' as a political expedience or a business arrangement. It was disconcerting to think that he might have been forming a romantic attachment. Disconcerting and extremely out of character for the dour Potions Master. "Shall I change?"

"That is for you to decide," he answered tactfully, once again making his token obeisance to the mocking god of irony.

Lareine looked down at her plain but well made robes, suitable for a day of errands when one has a reputation to preserve, then at his obvious preparations. "I'll change."

Having been raised in a blended environment of magical and Muggle, Lareine was a woman who liked to create her art by hand. She enjoyed selecting clothing, doing her hair, and putting on make-up; it gave her a perverse kind of pride, as it was something many witches couldn't do for themselves. Tonight, however, she employed Transfiguration and charms to speed up the process and kept the primping at a minimum, aware the entire time of the dark man's amusement.

In the space of ten minutes, she stood before him with her silk lined velvet cloak folded over one arm. She'd transfigured her robes to clinging indigo silk, mostly modest but for the fit and the plunging neckline. Her face was delicately painted, tumbling over her shoulders. "Shall we then?"

"Yes, I believe we shall." He took her cloak and draped it over her, fastening the black cloth frogs. He then swirled his own cloak about him, a dramatic movement more inherent than planned.

He gallantly offered her his arm and she accepted, the pair walking out to the wide eyed stares of her employees and the few patrons who waited in the reception area. They were met with an equal number of astonished or disbelieving looks along the street, which were disdainfully ignored by both of them.

Lareine was just a bit miffed when she realized that her acceptance had been taken entirely for granted. Reservations available…reservations had clearly been made, with a great deal of influence exercised in the process. They had no more than walked into the crowded restaurant, past the queue lining the walk, than they'd been seated at one of the best tables the establishment had to offer: near enough the orchestra to enjoy the music, not so near as to drown out all attempts at conversation, and in an alcove with the perfect blend of light and shadow to render their presences visible but their movements discreet.

Severus held out her chair, scooting it under her in a process that almost managed not to be awkward. There were no menus, but when the obsequious waiter floated up to them with an insincere smile, the Potions Master gave him their order in a bored drawl that strongly suggested his lack of confidence in the young man's ability to fulfill so simple a task. It was a tone his students would have recognized in their sleep.

His companion didn't object to his deciding her meal for her; it was expected among pureblood circles, one of the last remnants of the age of chivalry and chauvinism. It had never been something of which she'd been fond, but she dealt with it as an unavoidable nuisance.

While they were waiting for their food, Severus took her hand and raised her knuckles to his lips in a lingering kiss, conscious of the attention being focused their way from other tables. "Do look as if I'm not interrogating you, please," he murmured.

"If I do, will you explain all this?" she asked, indicating the room with a sweep of her other hand.

"I need you to get a letter to someone for me," he began, long fingers stroking the inside of her wrist. "And I need it to be with your customary degree of subtlety."

"I'm not an owl, Lord Snape."

"No, but you have the necessary contacts to ensure its timely delivery."

"To whom?" she inquired, curious in spite of herself.

"Severus?"

They both turned at the incredulous greeting, eyebrows raising almost in unison. Lucius Malfoy was approaching them from the host's stand. "Is that you old boy?"

"Lucius." He still hadn't released the madam's hand, nor did he now, again brushing his lips over her knuckles. "Narcissa."

"Interesting place to arrange payment for your whore," Lucius spat out, still seething over the denial of his privileges at the Lair.

"Indulge me, Lord Malfoy; precisely who is the whore?" Lareine's voice was sweet, her steely gaze anything but.

Severus narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, studying the Lady Malfoy. Narcissa had been heartbroken at her son's defection, all but shattered by his disappearance after the war. She existed as no more than a wispy shadow, only the devoted care of her house elves and a few steadfast friends keeping her alive. He decided to take a gamble and injected a sympathy into his voice that was only partially feigned. "My dear Cissy, I'm afraid I've been neglecting you recently." He was acutely aware of Lucius' fierce scrutiny. "Can you ever forgive me?"

She summoned a weak smile, her grey-blue eyes watery with constant tears. "There's nothing to forgive, Severus."

"Will you allow me to pay you a call sometime soon?"

Her eyes flickered to her husband for wary approval before answering. "That would be…I would…" She cleared her throat, her flustered blush staining her pale cheeks. Once, Narcissa Malfoy had been the epitome of poise and social grace, unflappable in any situation. "I would be grateful for the company."

He nodded slowly, feeling an alien stab of compassion. He'd always thought Narcissa Black Malfoy to be vain, shallow, and insipid, but the loss of her son had revealed a great deal about her. In all things she had deferred to her husband. All things but one: she truly, deeply loved Draco, and mourned him greatly. He wondered idly if Draco knew, if he had known. It was possible, he decided, if highly unlikely. The Malfoys were demonstrative in many things- wealth, power, connections- but affection had never been one of them.

"Shall we join you, old boy?"

"I think not," Severus answered coolly. He met the hard grey eyes as he nibbled the end of Lareine's finger. "In such a case as this, a crowd would be absolutely insupportable."

His lips turning white in pinched disapproval, Lucius bowed stiffly and stalked back to the perplexed seating host, his wife following aimlessly behind. Severus watched him until the pair of blonds were seated at a distant table, turning back to Lareine only to find her regarding him gravely.

"You play a dangerous game in baiting the snake."

"You forget, Madame, that I am a serpent as well."

"So to whom am I supposed to be delivering this letter?"

"To your friend in Spain, as an intermediary." He waited until she was taking a sip of wine. "From thence to Nymphadora Tonks."

It was slight- very slight- and its minimal existence made her rise somewhat higher in his estimation. It was still there, though, that telltale widening of the eyes and the muted choke of liquid catching in a surprised throat. Lareine calmly set down the glass and wiped her lips daintily on the linen lap cloth. "I understood her to be missing after the war," she noted.

"You also understand her to be in Spain, posing as Neville Longbottom. Don't reach for your wand," he continued sharply, seeing her fingers twitch at her décolletage. "You don't want me dead."

"No?"

"No," he echoed with grim satisfaction. "Not with the precautions I have taken."

The blond remained silent, her eyes darting quickly back and forth.

"You see, I have all of my facts, all of my theories, all of my _guesses_ written down and in my vault at Gringotts. With my death, the vault gets opened and perused by the Dark Lord, of which I don't see you being much in favor. If you attempt to Obliviate me- which, I should mention, is a charm to which I have a very high tolerance- there are notes in my house telling met to go to my vault. Either way, you lose, and will have given a way a most costly hand."

She heard him out in a silence that continued as the waiter delivered their meal. "This has to do with Nocturne," she said finally.

"Only peripherally."

Her brow furrowed questioningly. "It's true then? You really were loyal to the old man?"

"With every fiber of my being," he swore lowly.

"Hmmm…." Another long silence, one he was content to wait out. "Do you know who she is?"

"Do you?"

"No," she admitted ruefully. "I was simply asked to take them in. They were already glamoured when they arrived."

"You keep records, do you not, of the names they carry before they enter the Lair?" He knew who Nocturns was, but he wasn't entirely sure about Thantatos.

"Names are easy to fake, Severus."

"But names, even fake ones, have meaning."

Her eyes closed, twitching beneath the lids as though she read a paper against the darkness there. "Tristan," she recalled after a moment. "She came in as Tristan."

"And the other?"

"Lancelot."

He almost laughed in spite of himself. If there was any doubt that the silent paid were supporters of Dumbledore and Potter, it was dispelled. Tristan and Lancelot. He snorted elegantly. The two greatest champions of courtly love in Arthurian legend, one from Cornwall and one from France. It made a great deal most sense that in didn't, and gave him a possible clue into the identity of the platinum-haired bodyguard.

"I seem to remember being informer that you were staying out of this particular game."

"I changed my mind."

"And if you change your mind again?"

"I won't."

She studied his angular face, noting the facial hair and wondering if it meant anything. She didn't want to believe him but her instinct was certain of his sincerity. Her instinct had kept her alive too many times to argue with it now. "So you wish a letter delivered to Spain. What is this letter to say?"

"That, my dear Madame Lareine, is a secret."

"No, it isn't," she refuted harshly. "Nocturne and Thanatos were introduced to me by one I trust explicitly. You don't have the honor of that distinction."

"I rarely do."

She ignored his sarcasm, flicking her fingers in annoyance. "Be that as it may, I will not be party in delivering a letter of whose contents I cannot be sure."

"I believe you will, Miss Walsham."

She froze, staring at him with large, uncertain eyes. "How did you-"

"I may have been clumsy for a spy before, Lareine, but suffice it to say that genuine interest in the outcome has motivated me to step up my efforts. I'm fully aware of your rather colorful background, such as your departure from Hogwarts and your attempt to find a Potions Master willing to teach you in spite of it. I believe it was he who first sold you into prostitution?" he offered smoothly, ignoring her stricken look. "I hold a great many of your secrets now, Lareine, and I am fully intending to keep my own as well."

"As well?" She whispered.

"Do you keep mine, I will also keep yours."

She spent a long moment considering that, but she really had little other choice. Her reputation as a madam was built into the mystique of her name and the shrouding fog of her history. It was that same secrecy that gave many of her girls their allure, Nocturne not the least of them. "Will it endanger me if it gets intercepted?"

"No."

"You sound sure of that."

"I'm more careful than that." He reached out and lightly touched the back of her hand with a fingertip, more than he was comfortable giving when not in the façade of doting suitor. "You may rest assured, Madame, that I am cautious of my fellows in this."

She nodded unhappily, stabbing at her steak with her fork.

"In time, I shall also have letters for France and Italy, to be delivered in the same manner. Quiet and untraceable, and unsuspicious."

"Italy won't be a problem, though it will take some time to track down _which_ brothel he'll be visiting. France, though…"

"She is a paragon of beauty in the French state; there will be many willing to take love notes and tokens to such a one, and if it has a symbol the messenger will not recognize but that the recipient will, so much the better."

"And why is that you think they will all be so willing and easy to trust you?" She demanded shrewdly. "You killed the old man, after all, and were perfectly beastly through all their school years. Have you earned their trust?"

"You confuse trust with affection. I may never have had their affection, and quite frankly, I've never wanted it." Except one, his traitorous mind whispered, and he ruthlessly tamped down the stray thought. "Their game- _our_ game- has moved far beyond the petty restrictions of affection. Affection dictates a school clique; it does not dictate a political stratagem."

"Are you being optimistic?"

He gave her a sour look. "Hardly."

"Then what are you being?"

Her query ended on a trailing sigh and it was all he could do not to laugh at it. He'd forgotten in the past five years how _good_ it felt to feel alive. In the fourteen year entr'acte- or eleven year, depending on whether he ended the intermission at Potter's arrival at Hogwarts, when the troubles first resumed- he'd felt alive during his research. The pursuit of his grail had filled him with a purity of emotion that had seemed entirely different than the adrenaline-induced euphoria of escaping from another meeting or revel with his life and sanity still intact. Now, however, he wasn't so sure that they weren't eventually the same thing. It seemed that he was never going to stop learning, a thought that brought with it a profound and unsettling comfort.

He noticed Lucius watching them intently and allowed the smile to grow, not so large as to appear frightening to anyone who knew him, but more than was his wont. His elegant fingers re-captured her hand and brought it to his lips, his breath whispering against her palm. "I am being what I can. Precisely what that is I will discover in time."

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They left the restaurant hand in hand, Lareine giggling and flushing as they passed the Malfoy table. They both ignored the daggers the blond man shot at them with his eyes, emerging into the clammy darkness of Diagon Alley. It wasn't until they were safely ensconced in her chambers at the Lair that they left the façade of courting sweethearts aside and relaxed into their more taciturn demeanors.

"And you really won't tell me what is in the letter?" she pouted playfully, already fully aware of what his answer was going to be.

"I prefer to hold an audience in suspense," he shot back. His dark chuckle rolled across the space at her indignation.

The amusement faded from her blue eyes and she studied him, her expression closed and concealing. "Nocturne should be finished for the evening," she told him quietly, hanging her cloak in the wardrobe. "She was on early shift."

"Getting rid of me?"

"I'm curious," she confessed easily. "You know who she is, Snape. _I_ don't even know who she is, but you do. You figured it out, and yet you're still here. But I also know that you haven't touched her since finding out, which would argue to me that she's one of your former students."

He remained silent, which was in a way acknowledgement enough.

"You're still drawn to her. I can see it. It's my job to see it, to separate clients from my girls when one or the other starts getting too attached. But you're not exactly attached, are you?" she continued, the small, puckering frown appearing between her eyes. "I don't think I can quiet determine the connection that binds the two of you, yet bound you are.

"If nothing else, I am not the only one aware of this connection. Lord Malfoy has already sought to take advantage of it, the Dark Lord is assuredly aware of it, seeing as he is constantly attempting to redirect it, and not every member of the Circle is as daft as Crabbe and Goyle." She gave him another piercing look, eerily reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall. "Besides, I think it would be healthy for you to figure out what it is, see if it's something you can work with."

He wasn't entirely sure what to say to that line of reasoning, so choosing the wiser course, he again said nothing. Silence could be interpreted many ways; making a fool of himself through stumbling words was more difficult to shrug aside. With a mocking bow, he left her rooms and walked quietly up the stairs to the very top of the Lair, where Nocturne kept her room. Even while still debating with himself the wisdom of this course, his hand rose to knock on the plain door.

It was opened by Thanatos, and seeing the bodyguard was, as always, a shock after seeing Lucius. The aristocratic features of the two men weren't really similar, but the coloring and the aura of malevolent power was. Bodyguard and spy stared at each other in the doorway. Finally, an almost smile quirked at the younger man's lips and he stepped aside to allow Severus entry.

The Potions Master could hear muted splashing from the bathroom but took the time to remove his heavy cloak, folding it and laying it over the back of one of the chairs. He didn't know what to make of Thanatos' apparently easy trust when the other man waved lazily toward the bathroom and then disappeared behind the closed door of his own room. It wasn't the action- the bodyguards didn't stay in the room when their charges plied their wares- but they never left without the slightly menacing awareness of an observer nonetheless.

Shaking his head, he filed the change in a corner of his mind and entered the small bathing room, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

Nocturne was in the tub, her eyes closed and her head leaned back against the ledge of cool porcelain. His chest tightened at the smooth, tense line of her throat blending into the curves of her chest and stomach. She was an unearthly beauty and even knowing that it was a creation of spells and intent couldn't detract from that. It may have been created, but it still existed, and it was before him in shameless display. He could see and smell the oils floating on the surface of the water, the subtle, clinging scents of lavender and white heather. Beneath the water, her alabaster skin was flushed the palest pink from the heat of her soak.

He just stood there, drinking her in like a dying man at an oasis. She was poison and antidote in one glass, treading the razor-fine line of balance between the two. He tried to be diligent, tried to remain separate enough to name the strange connection Lareine had indicated, but even with the attempt he knew it was futile. She was an intoxication that would never fully be named; knowledge and awareness didn't alter that in the slightest.

It was unclear to him what precisely alerted her to his presence but he saw the instant that she noticed him. Her magnificent eyes didn't open, but every line of her body was suddenly thrumming with tension and awareness, as if it was all she could do not to leap out of the tub and square off against him. Her nostrils flared and she took in his personal scent of sandalwood and herbal soaps, cataloging it in her memory and identifying who it was that invaded the sanctity of her bath. Only then did she turn her head to look at him, her deep violet eyes neutral in their regard.

Without a word, Severus removed his dress robes, standing naked before her without any trace of discomfort or modesty. His dark eyes continued to drown in her, the air humming between them. She started to sit up but he shook his head, letting the rich fabric pool on the slick tile floor. Approaching the tub, he swung himself over her and knelt in the steaming water, not once looking away from her vaguely bemused gaze.

He saw a dish of soap, soft and almost liquid, resting on the ledge between the tub and the wall and scooped it into his hands, rubbing the slick substance between his fingers. His hands found her shoulders, gently massaging the tightness there and not moving on until her felt them relax and loosen under his skilled ministrations. The lather built along her slender arms, her fair skin blooming a pale red at his strong touch, but from the breathy groans whispering from her sealed lips, he knew that if there was pain, it was only the sharper edge of pleasure. Whenever his hands grew dry, he scooped more of the soap and continued, working at her body underwater until she was nearly boneless in his grasp.

Her eyes flew open as he slid first one finger, then two within her, the pad of his thumb resting over her clitoris. Then the hand stopped moving. She mewled soundlessly and ground her hips against him but her merely smirked down at her, arresting her with the look in his eyes. She couldn't describe that look, couldn't capture it within words, but it stole her breath away. His other hand smoothed down her legs, caressing the soles of her feet, the backs of her knees, before sliding back up her body to caress her face. His touch was gentler now, tender somehow with every sweep of his fingers against the arch of her brow or the curve of her jaw. The fingers slid through her damp hair to clamp tightly around the back of her neck, his forehead lowering to hers, and only then did his lower hand resume its movements.

Water and oil splashed heedlessly on the floor with her writhing, her hands clutching at his whipcord shoulders. Just when she felt the painful bubble about to burst in her chest, he pulled his hand away, holding her against his chest while she shook with blade-sharp tremors. When they had slowed somewhat, he took a bottle from the ledge and poured the viscous liquid into his hands, strong fingers digging possessively into her scalp. She could still feel his breath against her cheek, her throat, as he washed her hair with a strange mix of tenderness and power. She felt distinctly off balance, but couldn't help but be aware of his arms waiting to catch her when she fell.

He arched her against him, her breasts pressing into his bare chest, so that he could rinse her hair underwater, his fingers threading through the thick mass of curls. Under the surface, they floated around her face like seaweed trailing from a naiad; when he pulled her back up, they stretched and elongated with the waterlogged weight. He Vanished the water but rather than reaching for a towel, he poured more of the oil into his hands. Severus caught her eyes with his, not allowing her to look away while he smoothed it into her body, sucking up the moisture and locking it into her skin. She stared back at him with something akin to wonder, though the edges were tainted with confusion and wariness. She was letting him have his way for the moment, but he was under no illusions that she'd let down her guard.

When her body was completely dry and gleaming, he reached for a cloth and transfigured it to silk, twining the whispering fabric through her hair and letting it absorb the excess water. He dried himself with a dispassionate charm, pulling her against him and playing with her wet curls.

Finally, she shook off his hands and stood up, taking his hand. He followed her docilely into the bedroom, allowing her to push him gently onto the bed. Her small, delicate hands remained in contact with his chest, Nocturne tumbling down with him atop the comforter. She gave him a considering look, her nails scratching ever so lightly against the smattering of dark hair against his pale chest. Her eyes spoke what her voice wouldn't; where was the balance here? What twist in the game did this present?

Severus didn't give her the chance to find out. Encircling her upper arms with his hands, he swiftly rolled them over, trapping her beneath his weight. The two thin braids on the sides of his face swung down, just brushing the comforter. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his face to hers, feeling the pace of her breathing quicken, hearing the unease as it rattled through her throat.

And he kissed her.

His lips teased against hers, coaxing them open with gentle movements. Although she stiffened against him, he didn't stop kissing her, nipping her lower lip with soft insistence. Melting against him, she opened her lips to a dance of tongues and heat, an exploration more sexual, more sensual, than anything they'd done before. He had always played the game of whoring dangerously close; now he toppled them over the edge into a sweet oblivion of breathy gasps and swallowed groans. He pulled away and looked down at her from a few inches, seeing her face flushed prettily and her mouth swollen with his kisses. It had been a very, very long time since he'd seen a woman like that because of him, because of his actions, his kisses. With a rumbling growl of longing, he resumed his attack on her willing mouth.

Nocturne closed her eyes as the enigma atop her slid slowly down her body, paying every inch of her skin the reverence he'd given her lips. Even if she had been just a regular prostitute, with nothing but the job on her mind, he would have been an odd man. Whoever heard of trying to pleasure a whore? But nearly every single time he came, if the visit was or became sexual in nature, he saw to her own height, sought her pinnacle before allowing himself to reach his own. It was a perverse kind of courtesy, a mocking discipline that baffled her. She choked on a strangled cry, her fingers tangling in his clean hair and digging into his scalp.

Severus didn't know anymore if this was part of the game or not. All he knew was the taste of her redolent on his tongue and the sweet pain of her hands on his head. He knew it was wrong, that he shouldn't be taking advantage of her knowing who she was, but the thought didn't bring with it the sick, black guilt that it usually did; instead, he slid his arms under her hips to reveal her more fully to his questing mouth, his overlarge nose finally a blessing rather than a point of ridicule.

Tugging at his arms impatiently, she tried to make her wishes clear. The heaven of his mouth was pure hell when she desperately wanted him to quench the fires he was stoking. A small part of her screamed that this was Severus Snape, the teacher who had lived to make others miserable, but memories of an accident in Potions, of a robe draped around her, of the depth of self-loathing in his eyes when he'd marked her…these things clamored louder than the voice of caution and drove her to greater heights than she'd ever known. Losing all semblance of patience, she wrapped a lock of hair around her small fist and tugged viciously, yanking his head away from her.

He actually grinned. Granted, it was barely discernible from a smirk, but to someone who'd spent the past several months studying the former Head of Slytherin, there were subtle differences. Severus Snape was grinning. He kissed his way back up her body, marking her with her own essence, before recapturing her lips, his body a firm weight atop her. She whimpered and rolled her hips, her entire world narrowed to her own pleasure and the man pinning her to the bed.

He teased her mercilessly, surging against her only to pull away. When she struggled against him he only grabbed for her arms, sure that there would be inadvertent bruises in the morning. The more he restrained her, the more unrestrained she became, writhing underneath him with a litany of silent pleas pouring from her elfin eyes. She caught her lower lip and sucked it sweetly, and he thrust into her with a groan that threatened to split his chest.

For several long moments, neither moved, their lips brushing against each other and breaths rasping against their skin. Still motionless within her, Severus kissed her softly, slowly, fire racing from where they were joined to rack his brain and render him senseless. He could feel her skin hot and flushed against his hands, his chest, everywhere they touched and it was that sensation of all-consuming flame that made him roll his hips gently, grinding into her to hear her breath catch. It had been barely enough but it was too much and she was quaking around him, ripples chasing down his shaft to batter at what little remained of his self control.

Ruthlessly, he rode it out, waiting until the tremors had slowed to start a rhythmic surge and retreat, rendering her gasping in moments. Their skin gleamed with oil and sweat, her alabaster face blotchy with a fierce flush, but her eyes were closed and her head thrown back in bliss, her empty hands curling and uncurling into helpless fists as waves of pure sensation crashed over her again, pulling her under. He could feel himself tighten and he let go of her arms, gathering her close against his chest and claiming her mouth in another searing, plundering kiss as he poured into her. Neither noticed his collapse atop her, the sweat drying on their skin in clammy puddles as they sought to find the world in the chaos of sensation.

It was Nocturne who awoke first, her eyes snapping open to fix on the man still sprawled half atop her. She eased out from under him, reaching for her wand to perform cleaning charms on them and the room itself, heavy with the scent of exertion and fluids. She stared at him for a long time.

She was still staring at him when she heard Thanatos emerge from his connected room, studying both her and the Death Eater on the bed. She looked up at him with huge, tear-filled eyes.

He slowly shook his head, communication passing effortlessly between them though not a word was said. His grey eyes, normally hard and cold and dead to the world at large, darkened with compassion as his ward buried her face in her hands. He knew what it was like to suddenly have the balance ripped out from under her, and when she learned more about the strange puzzle of Severus Snape, she would remember that she knew what it was like, as well.

But Nocturne hadn't gotten back her distance yet, and her hands shook as she stroked a silky lock of hair off the pale forehead of the man in the bed. She'd always vaguely expected passion from the Potions Master; it the tenderness that had shocked her.

Still shaking his head, Thanatos moved to the chess board and adjusted the black pawn, setting it where it could pose a threat to the white queen. The white king still loomed dangerously over it, but depending on who made the first move, and what the first move was, he had a feeling that the queen would be more at risk than he.


	11. And After This Our Exile

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. sigh**

_A/N: As always, please hit the little blueish box at the bottom of the page that says submit review. The more times that gets hit, the faster my fingers hit all the rest of the keys._

**Chapter Eleven: And After This Our Exile**

Severus was the last to arrive in the Dark Lord's paneled conference room, his fellows leaving his customary seat at the left hand empty for him. He'd been immersed deep in the bowels of a library, rendering him nearly impossible for the messenger to find. He wasn't sure yet if he was glad of that eventual discovery or not. With a deep bow to the tyrant, he glided gracefully to his seat.

"I have good news, my friends."

As always, it took all of his legendary self-discipline not to stare at Voldemort's mouth while he spoke. The irreverent and dangerously inappropriate voice lodged in the back of his head was incessantly curious as to whether or not the Dark Lord had a forked tongue like a snake. If he actually watched the man speak, he was afraid that he would too intently stare for any trace of the edges whistling through his lips on certain word sounds. Quashing the voice ruthlessly, he gave the man on his right every appearance of attention.

"After so many months of set backs, we finally have news from Russia." Tom Riddle's vermillion eyes gleamed from the narrow slits in his pale skull, traveling over each man in turn. "Antonin Dolohov, were he here, would be rising in eminence for his successes."

"He caught the Weasley bitch?" Claudius Parkinson asked eagerly, praying fervently that the hopeless task had been taken from him.

"No," their Master answered curtly, his thin lips twisting in a scowl. "No, that directive still lies upon you, Parkinson. But Dolohov has felled the great Kingsley Shacklebolt."

His face a carefully expressionless mask, Severus allowed himself to feel a sharp pang of regret. He didn't know if this Shacklebolt was the real one or not, but the memory of the man who had almost been a friend brought about fresh pain with its loss. Even with that, his mind was already turning things over, weighing how this could alter the board. It would take out a major player, but were the pawns surrounding him capable of stepping into his shoes? Which pawns had he been given to take into the villages and cities of the Old World?

Lucius watched his formed friend fiercely, scrutinizing him for any kind of wayward thought. He had long had his suspicions of the former spy, kept silent all these years at the risk of angering the Dark Lord, but he had watched Severus as much as it was possible to without giving himself away. He had not, however, grown particularly adept at translating what his eyes told him, and all he could see now was an indication of mild interest and pensiveness.

"My Lord, how did the Auror fall?" The question was politely offered by a young woman whose name Severus could never quite recall. She was rather young to be in such a position but the rare times she spoke in these meetings showed her to be of an intelligent nature. Ruthlessness must lie closely beneath the surface, however, for there were very few women allowed to step fully into the rank of Death Eater, and only Bellatrix had before occupied a place in the Inner Circle.

"One of his spies turned traitor to him and surrendered him to an ambush by Dolohov and his men," Voldemort condescended to answer. "His companions escaped when he fell to Dolohov's curses."

"And why is Mister Dolohov not here to accept his accolades?"

A hush fell over the already quiet room, every eye on the young woman audacious enough to question their Master. Voldemort narrowed his eyes but couldn't see anything but the vaguely puzzled frown of someone trying to figure out a riddle or problem. "Dolohov fell not long after Shacklebolt," he said slowly. "They injured each other greatly in their duel. It was merely to our luck that the Auror fell first.

"This means, however, while we may have a short time for celebration, we must make certain Russia cannot be taken over by one of the man's toadies. We cannot afford to have so large and powerful a nation at odds against us, not with the depth of magic they have at their disposal."

Severus nodded along with everyone else, knowing it to be true. Russia was steeped in very old magics. Many of their village witches, toothy grandmothers who rarely used their magic for more than simples or poultices, could drop a full grown wizard with a crook of their finger. Life magics, it was whispered, and therefore death magics as well. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had always insisted on employing Russian healers for their infirmaries, convinced that their native strengths would pass on through their talents. Severus had found that theory rather silly, but Russian healers were still in high demand in England and on the Continent.

He knew that it came in part from how uncivilized much of Russia still was. They had kept the old ways for longer than nearly anyone else. But for all their power, they were often as wayward children, playing games in their own little world without any kind of understanding of what they could perform on the world stage. He had the feeling they were learning, first from Shacklebolt and next from whoever stepped into the empty shoes. For the first time, he realized that the world was not going to suddenly be a euphoric utopia simply because Voldemort was no longer in it.

The world would still have politics and intrigue, still have violence and murder and all manner of savagery. The basic impulses of mankind were not going to change simply because they lost a figurehead that promoted it. Yet things weren't going to return to a status quo, either. They weren't going to return to the way things had been before the second war. They had lost too many people, too many good people, and lost many a guiding light. More importantly, the children had learned to think.

There comes a point in every child's life where he or she must make a choice that defines the rest of it. It is a simple enough choice when all is said and done, merely a yes or no. That choice, that simple choice, is merely to decide whether or not he or she will begin to think for themselves. In his mind it sounded ridiculous; of course they would think for themselves! But how much evidence had he received that many never did? Narcissa Malfoy, certainly, had gone unprotesting from her father's house to her husband's, with nary a singular thought between them.

These children though…These precocious, ruthless children had learned to think, to plan, to strategize. They had learned to manipulate players on the world stage and they cared little for the cost of their actions so long as they met their goal. Was it truly as easy at that? He wondered again what their plans might be for after, if there was an after. What were they intending to do if they got what they wanted?

He cleared his throat delicately, waiting to see if the Dark Lord would acknowledge him. It was a chancy thing, speaking without being spoken to, but he wanted too to see if the grace he'd been given with creating Charlie's poison still held.

It seemed it did. "Yes, Severus? You had something to add?"

"What is being done with the body, my Lord?"

"The body?" The tyrant frowned thoughtfully, curling his fingers around the narrow stem of the porcelain tea cup. "You believe something should be done with it?"

"My Lord," he replied deferentially, his dark chocolate voice the envy of most of the men in the room, "they have brought about many a token who we believed already dead. Shacklebolt is included in this. His body, or what we may have falsely thought to be his body, hung from the walls for many months. I would like to be certain if this is truly the man we seek."

"Meaning?"

Severus chose his next words very, very carefully, aware of his Master's eyes narrowing angrily. "With your permission, my Lord, I should like to perform the sigil test on the body, if we can have it returned to us. As with the former Mister Weasley, there is a way to determine if this is truly Kingsley Shacklebolt or if it is a clever imitation. For that, however, we would need the body to be delivered to us here, or I should need to journey there."

"No," Tom said absently. "You're too valuable to me, Severus, and I won't have you risked in foolish journeys where any may prey upon you. I shall order the corpse brought here. Perform whatever tests you wish."

"My Lord is most gracious," he murmured, bowing his head.

"Only when it suits me to be so." The fearsome gaze leveled on the hapless Parkinson, making the other man swallow hard. "Dolohov has given his life in a most noble endeavor, but has success to show for it. What success have you to show for your efforts, Claudius?"

Pansy's father plucked anxiously at his silver-trimmed robes, trying to avoid his Master's gaze. "She and Potter are protected much more stringently than Shacklebolt, my Lord. She is impossible to get on her own. Even their appearances are staunchly guarded. Unlike the Auror, they speak only to small crowds, people they've specifically chosen as safe to be near. We have tried, my Lord, many times, and have only three dead agents and a house-elf to show for it."

"_Avada Kedavra_." The long, thin wand pointed at Parkinson almost lazily, the flash of green light engulfing the room. When it cleared, the man lay slumped in his chair, lifeless with his face fixed in a rictus of fear. "Miss Clemens, the task is yours. See that you do a better job than your predecessor."

The young woman nodded respectfully, her name suddenly flashing into the Potions Master's mind. Ishtari Clemens, one of his Slytherins, a few years behind the Golden Trio and their cohorts. But her hair had always been short then, falling forward to hide her face. She was one of the few he had known almost nothing about, but then, the child rarely spoke to anyone, much less to him. Her glossy black hair was long now, worn in a braided crown so as to highlight the fiercely beautiful features of her Persian mother. Liquid eyes, so dark a brown as to be nearly black, flickered back and forth in the space before her, considering her options.

She'd been betrothed in the cradle to Blaize Zabini, his mind added, information pouring in with the floodgate of his memory opened. Their mothers had been friends, their fathers business partners, and both families had seen the match to be one of great advantage. Unlike so many other birth-arrangements, Blaise and Ishtari had been friends all their lives, comfortable in the idea of wedding each other. So far as he knew, neither had formed a serious attachment during or after the war, though they'd both had their dalliances to be sure. She bore watching, he decided. She had risen to prominence during the war; there had to be a reason.

It was nearly two weeks before Theodore Nott returned to London with the ersatz Shacklebolt in tow. A visit with Nocturne had confirmed his suspicions; whatever gambit they were making, it wasn't an entirely false one. The black bishop that had stood for the former Auror, one of four black bishops on the board, had been replaced with a fourth knight. For the first time, he had noticed a third rook in the vicinity of the black king and queen, but couldn't begin to guess what that meant. For now, though, it didn't matter.

He directed the delivery of the corpse to the sublevel in which he'd previously worked, preparing the chrism with a meticulous touch. By the time he finally unwound the sheet, he nearly snorted. It seemed the test would be unnecessary after all, which anyone would have known had they bothered to even look at the cargo they were carrying.

He had no doubt that the man currently lying on his table had indeed seemed to be Kingsley Shacklebolt, but whatever means he had used had faded with his death. Severus observed the closely cropped black hair, the dark brown skin and broad nose, knowing the name would come to him in a minute.

Dean Thomas.

Yes, that was it. He nodded slowly, tugging at the neat braid in which he'd bound his hair to keep it out of the chrism. He'd been one of the Gryffindors, but never so blessed with the attention of the Golden Trio. He'd been Muggleborn; he remembered hearing Weasley complaining about the stationary poster of the West Ham football team. The margins of his papers had always been covered in little drawings and doodles, quite talented though Severus loathed their appearance on homework and tests. As he'd grown into his skills as a wizard, so too had his artistic talent developed, the two merging to create entire murals of moving characters. He'd been responsible for the roaring lion banners at the Quidditch games; Luna Lovegood had been responsible for the roaring lion heads.

He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he could be fooled in this as easily as anything else. The chrism was already prepared and wouldn't keep; it didn't make sense to waste it. Too, it didn't hurt to make sure he was telling Voldemort the right thing. It wouldn't do to have another fake show up and not know it for what it could be.

Opening Ollivander's record book, he found the line for Thomas, Dean, tracing it with one finger through all the information. Ten and a half inches, dragon heartstring, made of yew. At the end of the line, nearly damaged by the edge of the page starting to curl with age, was the sigil that was the visible representation of his magical signature. He studied it carefully, emblazoning it on the back of his eyelids. When he was sure he had it, he took a deep breath and reached for the chrism and brush.

The clear, gleaming liquid glittered with the suspended gold dust, an almost oily trail on the dead man's chest as he painted. With the last brush stroke, the dust activated and sent a flare of golden light through the room. When Severus brought his arm down from before his eyes, the chrism was gone. In its place was a black burn in the form of the sigil.

It was definitely Dean Thomas. He knew he should go immediately to the Dark Lord, inform him of the discovery such as it was, but he simply set down brush and bowl and leaned against the lab table, his arms folded across his chest. Plots within plots, he told himself. What was the plot within this?

If it hadn't been too dangerous to put into writing at the former Ministry- and more importantly make him feel like a certain Gryffindor know-it-all- he would have made himself a list. Seeing things in writing had always helped him find the links more easily. But, it was dangerous, and it was foolhardy, and he would just have to go about it the hard way.

This was not proof that Kingsley Shacklebolt was dead. Perhaps Shacklebolt had been the man on the Ministry gates, perhaps he was still alive in Russia. What then did that make the dead Mister Thomas? Was he the false Shacklebolt, the voice of Dumbledore's men in Russia? If so, then was he an accident? A genuine loss to the men of the Dark Lord? Was he a deliberate sacrifice, meant to set some further plan into place? If he wasn't Shacklebolt, what part did his death play in the elaborate subterfuge?

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a pounding headache pulsing behind his temples. Oh, they were good. He admitted, rather reluctantly, that he had a great deal of catching up to do. He hated that feeling. He knew who some of the players were but not how to get the information he needed. He couldn't place any faith in Nocturne or Thanatos telling him, and he didn't think Lareine actually knew all the pieces.

Having lost track of time, he couldn't begin to guess how long he stood there next to the body of his former student, immersed in his heretical thoughts. Giving himself a mental shake, he cleaned his materials and tucked the sheet neatly about the deceased young man, a murmured _Nox_ extinguishing the lights in the room as he left it.

He paused at Miss Sigurdson's desk when he saw the Dark Lord's office door closed. The blonde glanced up at him disinterestedly, twirling her quill in her ink-splotched fingers. "May I help you, Lord Snape?" she asked politely.

"Is the Dark Lord available?"

She thought about it for a moment, her pale blue eyes scanning the appointment sheet at her elbow. "He is with Lord Malfoy at the moment. Would you like me to ask him if he will see you?"

Severus inspected his silver and emerald signet ring, weighing his options. "Tell him, if you please, that I have made a discovery about the body, but am content to wait his leisure."

The young woman nearly smiled at him, her face lighting up in a way that was unexpectedly pretty. "You sneaky man," she chided mockingly. "You know very well that he'll insist on seeing you immediately. Why not just save me the trip?"

He smirked at her, cataloging her reaction in the back of his mind. He had heard of her teasing before but it was always other men. She'd never dared tease him. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, a feeling he was rapidly becoming accustomed to. "The dance of courtesy must be obeyed, Miss Sigurdson. I would not dare presume otherwise."

Dimples deepening, she shook her head and got to her feet, dainty heels clicking on the tile as she walked to the door. Her head poked inside, her long braids bouncing at the small of her back. He couldn't hear what she said, as the office had multiple privacy and silencing charms about it, but she returned a moment later and resumed her seat at the desk. "As I guessed, Lord Snape, he wishes you to go straight in."

"Thank you, Miss Sigurdson." His dark eyes passed over the folded crossword on her desk, seeing several gaps in it. "I believe you may find 34 down to be 'vivienne'."

She looked down, reading the clue as the rumored mistress of Merlin. Counting the spaces and matching what letters she already had, she laughed merrily. "Why, thank you, Lord Snape."

Still frowning bemusedly over the odd interaction, Severus passed into the office and closed the door behind him. "Thank you for seeing me, my Lord." He bowed deeply, his braid swinging over his shoulder with the dipping movement.

"Always for you, Severus."

Glancing at the blond aristocrat, Severus could see that his presence wasn't universally appreciated, but he somehow thought he could live with that. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

"No, of course not. Lucius was just telling me of plans for the anniversary celebration."

"Oh?" He raised his eyebrows at his old friend, sinking gracefully into the chair indicated by a sweep of the hand of their mutual Master. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, I'm sure the plans must have been fascinating."

Lucius only glared.

"What is it that you've learned, Severus?"

He crossed one leg over the other and laced his fingers together, tapping the index fingers against his lips. "The body is not that of Kingsley Shacklebolt," he reported. When Voldemort began to speak, he cautiously continued. "I do not know if that means that Shacklebolt was already dead, or if he hides still."

"Whose body was it?"

"A former student named Dean Thomas. He was a Gryffindor in the same year as Potter, Weasley, and Malfoy."

He carefully hid his smug smile at Lucius' unintentional start. Mentioning his son nearly always got some sort of rise out of him; unfortunately it usually also got a reaction from the Dark Lord. Fortunately for him, the despot was too involved with the new information to notice.

"You are certain of this, Severus?"

"Yes, my Lord. The sigil confirmed it. It is definitely the Thomas boy."

"What else do we know of him?"

While he dutifully repeated what he'd recalled, none of it particularly incriminating, he kept an eye on Lucius. The man had proven to be particularly volatile of late; was his former friend losing hold of himself?

Tom Riddle tapped his long, slender fingers o the edge of his desk. "We know little more than we did before," he sighed. "What does this Dean Thomas mean?"

Severus didn't answer, but one wasn't really required.

"My Lord," Lucius began unctuously, "might I respectfully suggest that the boy's body be hung on the gates like the others? It is time the people were reminded that we eliminate our threats."

"No!" Both men looked at their sovereign in surprise and modulated his harsh tone. "No. We are moving past that time."

"But my Lord-"

"No! Do not question me on this, Lucius. We are moving past the time of savagery, where every death must be met tenfold. If we are ever to prosper, we must gain a touch of civility. Burn the body so that it cannot be used by anyone else. We must find out if he was the one masquerading as the Auror. Lucius, worry no further about that silly celebration; someone less capable can take over it, as it requires no great skill. You will take Dolohov's place in understanding what is going on in Russia."

"I will be honored, my Lord," he replied lowly, inwardly seething. He had made a very cushy existence for himself, essentially creating a role for himself as the Dark Lord's social planner. Being out in the field was not his idea of comfort. He glared daggers at the Potions Master, irrationally blaming him for he saw as his demotion.

"Severus, see if Lareine knows any madams in Russia; see if she has any contacts that may be of use to us."

"Thank you, my Lord."

It startled a laugh out of him, a genuinely delighted laugh coming from the man who had transformed himself past all recognition of humanity. "You are that fond of her then? Good, good! Go to her then, Severus. Go visit your love."

Rising to his feet, he bowed once more and left the room, nodding a farewell to the suddenly intriguing Miss Sigurdson. He was off to do the Dark Lord's bidding, but somehow he didn't think it would be Lareine he went to see in order to obey completely. And somehow, that thought wasn't as unsettling as he thought it should be.

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Severus held his breath as he carefully added five drops of siren's tears to the simmering brew in his cauldron. He didn't want to accidentally breathe in any of the sickly sweet fumes that the tears were famous for. Homer had expounded upon the danger of their songs; he'd never recounted the danger of every piece of them. The few foolhardy men who had landed upon their island immune to their songs had found their scent, their touch, to be equally intoxicating and debilitating.

Picking up the glass stir rod, he pulled it through the thick potion in an odd crisscross pattern, neither clockwise nor counter-clockwise but rather in a hatch mark or grid. When he slid the rod out of the potion so as not to drip any, the sparkling black shimmered into a pale green, softer than mint. Now it had to simmer for three hours on low heat before he could add the next ingredients in what he hoped would be a viable potion. Possibly a cream, he reminded himself with a frown. The equation he'd used to determine the viscosity had come through muddled and inconclusive. As much as he hated it, he was just going to have to wait and see how it turned out.

He crossed his private lab to a table he hadn't used in any of the preparations, sinking down onto the stool and looking over his notes. If this worked the way he wanted it to, it was a possible way to neutralize Nagini.

It was a long shot, and he knew it. Even if it did work, how was he going to get it administered to the damn serpent? And, he grimaced, he didn't know how to deactivate the Horcruxes. If he had the book he could possibly do it, but he thought there had to be more to it than that. Albus Dumbledore had been a very powerful wizard and the ring had destroyed him. There had to be more to it than mere power. He would tell Lareine, let her pass it along to whoever could make the best of the information. If the back of the book hadn't been lying, then Nagini was the only one left. If only he'd been able to look at it more closely!

The hand not holding a quill curled into a fist in helpless fury. Granger's research had always been impeccable and he had no reason to doubt that she had been any different in this regard. Pulling a fresh sheet of parchment towards him, he wrote a note to himself in fluent Latin, a language with which he knew most others to be unfamiliar. He'd done that since his youth, just after leaving Hogwarts. The Potions Master with whom the Dark Lord had assigned him to apprentice had been a nosy old coot, constantly mucking about in his apprentice's personal notes. However, in an appalling deficiency in an academic, the man had known neither Latin or Greek, and the young Severus had thereafter put all of his notes into the classical languages.

A knock on the door startled him, sending his hand twitching reflexively for his wand. He trained it at the door, steady despite the tension thrumming through his veins. "Who's there?"

"Begs pardon, Master Snape, but owls has arrived," came the squeaking voice of a house-elf on the other side of the door.

Frowning, Severus released the wards and opened the door for the servile creature that came in holding an un-struggling barn owl. The elf's long ears lay flat and drooping, his tennis ball eyes watery as he looked up at his person, clearly expecting some sort of punishment for interrupting his work. Ignoring the creature for the moment, he took the envelope tied to the owl's leg and inspected the blood red seal.

And snorted.

The Gryffindor crest had been pressed into the scarlet wax, gold dust bringing the lion into relief against the shield. He had a feeling that whoever had sent the letter had been fully aware of the irony involved, and he mentally applauded them. Then he turned the letter over and read the address: Greasy Git of the Dungeons.

Lips twitching in rare humor, he laid a hand gently on the servant's quivering head. "Peace, Asphodel," he murmured, feeling the trembling ease slightly. "Is the owl to wait for a return message?"

"Yes, Master!" The watery eyes only grew more pronounced with the creature's relieved smile. The owl twisted its head around to regard them both impassively.

"Then care for it, please. I will bring up the message when it is ready."

"Yes, Master." Asphodel bowed lowed and backed out of the doorway before running pell-mell down the hall and up the stairs. All the elves in the Snape house knew not to Apparate within the house lest they disturb some delicate working in the lab below.

Reclaiming his seat, Severus slid his wand under the seal to crack it, laying the letter out flat. It took him a moment to place the handwriting, but he knew it was familiar. Small and neat but slanted forward at a severe angle, as if the ideas were rushing faster than the hand could follow. Either feminine or rich pureblood, and looking at the small circles above the i's he decided it must be feminine; males generally just made a vague slash with their quill, only taking care that it appeared above the correct letter. There were a few smears in places, smudges that looked like someone had dragged their hand through the wet ink, and it clicked. Ginny Weasley, for whatever reason, had written him a letter. After all, she was the only left-handed female he knew in the players. Bringing one of her Potions essays into his mind, he compared the script and nodded slowly, sure now of his theory.

He smoothed the creases in the letter and began to read, his chin propped on one fist and his night-dark eyes vaguely amused.

_Well, if you're actually reading this, you've grown up more than I would have suspected, to have been able to continue past the childish appellation._

"Impertinent chit," he snorted.

_However, I'll have you know that most of us haven't really moved past that. In our minds, you're still the Greasy Git of the Dungeons, the Bastardly Dastardly Bat, only know you also receive the title of Dumbledore's murderer. I can't even count the number of times we made Harry go over that night, the number of times we studied it in pensieves just to try and figure out what actually happened, and you know, we still haven't decided upon anything? Theories abound, of course, but the only two people who know the truth are you and Dumbledore, and he wouldn't tell us anything about it back when we were still in a position to access his portrait._

_Which leads us to the main question: what are you up to? You should be flattered, Snape. You've occupied more of our discussions recently even than Tom. Our clever friend informs us that you've decided to enter fully into our little game, but I'm not so willing to simply allow that. You have a great deal to answer for, and more importantly, you have a great many answers to give, the foremost of which is Can we trust you?_

_I'm sure that lack of trust is something you're quite used to, so don't expect an apology for the offense I doubt you're even feeling. You're too intelligent to think that it's in any way unfounded. We aren't still in Hogwarts, we're not still children thinking you're the bogeyman come to reap unfairness upon us. You were a spy- a very, very successful spy- for many years. You balanced your life upon a fine web of lies, truths, and half-truths, keeping your footing by means of misdirection and concealment. You murdered Dumbledore, whatever the circumstances. You are Tom's left hand, and perhaps more truthfully his right hand if Malfoy's degeneration is to be believed. You are 'too valuable to risk in foolish journeys'._

_I'm well aware that you created the poison that killed my brother, but you can be forgiven for that as we're the ones who made it possible and necessary for him to take it. You are very good at preserving your own skin, which in other circumstances is a trait I might even applaud. I know too that you've had plenty of opportunity to harm or betray my fellow conspirators, Lareine not the least of them. You don't know enough, but you know too much, and you could make things very difficult for us in Spain and London. _

_So why aren't you? Severus Tobias Snape, WHAT are you doing? We need to know so that we can factor you or not into our plans. I'll admit that you have the potential to be very useful; you're well placed, you have experience in this, and you have the ability to custom-create Potions that could have a great deal of impact. I simply don't trust you._

_So make me trust you, Snape. Give me a reason to believe that you won't betray us as it certainly appeared last time. Give me a reason to tell you more, to tell you of our plans and how you could assist in them._

_If you can actually succeed in that, then you'll have deserved every precious piece of information._

It wasn't signed, but then he hadn't really expected it to be. He absently continued to smooth the creases, ruminating on what he'd learned.

They had someone in the Inner Circle, or some way in which to eavesdrop on the conferences. Her quotation had been sly but present. They knew too of Malfoy's teetering, but it wasn't through Nocturne, Thanatos, or Lareine, as Lucius hadn't been allowed back into the Lair. They hadn't had a celebration there in some time, so there had been no reason for Voldemort to plead partial clemency for his lieutenant. Pansy, perhaps; she would have been able to observe the blond man in her visits to his wife, but her father had died in the meeting which supplied Miss Weasley's reference. How would she have acquired that?

Most importantly, though, they were willing to give him the chance. Even with the acknowledgement of his sins, they were willing to see if he could prove himself.

Which begged the question: could he?

Could he prove himself to these judges who could hardly be labeled as impartial?

The letter demanded an answer but not necessarily an immediate one, so Severus Snape settled in to do some serious thinking. By the time he had come up with something he thought might work, it was time to return to his potion and sprinkle in the powdered kirin horn. After stirring it widdershins for twenty consecutive minutes, he took a pair of tongs and delicately dropped in a blazing sunstone, watching the solution erupt into licking green flames. When it cooled, the flames extinguished and revealed a silky ivory cream, looking more like a ladies cosmetic than a near-deadly tranquilizer.

He glanced over at the long King Cobra trapped in a cage on a shelf far above the reach of any nifflers, who were known to have a penchant for eating serpents. No, he would test it later. Now he had a test of a different sort to accomplish.

A scant half hour later, he dripped wax onto a parchment envelope and pressed his signet ring to imprint the pattern. With a stasis charm cast over the cauldron to prevent any dust from polluting the cream, he left the lab and walked through the sprawling house to the kitchen, his appearance sending the house-elves into a flurry of panic.

He silently held up the letter and Asphodel quickly calmed the others, gently lifting the owl from the makeshift perch in front of the window and bringing it over. "We's feds and watersed it, Master."

"Thank you." He tied on the letter, stroking one finger along the feathery tufts above the owl's ears. "You know where this goes, I believe."

The owl hooted softly and nipped his finger, though not strongly. Asphodel opened the window and the messenger bird took off, feathers shivering into invisibility.

Severus raised an eyebrow but couldn't help but dissolve into quiet laughter. Invisible owls…Merlin, these students really had thought of everything.


	12. Dry Thy Tears, Niobe

**Disclaimer: I make no money off of these characters, and most of them aren't even mine. pout**

_A/N: Please review! I'm going through a really bad time right now, so reviews will really make my day and keep me going._

**Chapter Twelve: Dry Thy Tears, Niobe**

Pansy Parkinson Goyle had not been an attractive girl at school. She had very quickly become resigned to this fact, acknowledging her rather pug-like face, and promptly set about learning ways to compensate for the lack. She might not have been the most beautiful girl in Slytherin, but she was undisputedly its reigning queen. Though few knew it, including most of her professors, she was also highly intelligent. That one trait was generally hidden, as most of her male peers- and potential husbands- were intimidated by intelligence in a female. So she'd played dumb to make them more comfortable, all the while watching everything that went on around her and analyzing it like any good serpent.

So Pansy was very aware of the fact that Professor Snape was watching her.

She had shrugged it off at first as coincidence; after all, it wasn't unreasonable that two people should happen to be in Diagon Alley at the same time. It hadn't meant anything then, so she went about her errands, having her robes let out in preparation for the growing baby, getting her prenatal potions from the apothecary, visiting Madame Lareine to discuss the preparations for the fête she was throwing for her husband. Gregory Goyle had taken to sulking around the house of late, mourning the loss of his two best friends. Draco had been an unexpected traitor to the cause and Vincent Crabbe Junior had been killed for his accidental murder of the Patil twin.

Pansy wanted her husband out of the house for as long as possible. There was simply too much she had to do for him to be underfoot.

It wasn't until the second day that she began to suspect that there was something intentional in the happenstance meetings. The denizens of Salazar's House had learned as first years to interpret the different looks of their Head. His dark eyes held too much irony, too much private amusement, for her to be completely comfortable.

As the days turned into a full week, she became convinced of it. He was letting himself be seen for a reason, and while she could make a few hesitant guesses as to the reasons, she knew too that he was far too convoluted a man to have only one motive in any given circumstance. There was nothing to be done for it, though; if she made a fuss, he would peg her reaction as uncharacteristic. If she said anything, he would have something to say in return, something that could be dangerous.

Thus, when she paid her weekly visit to Malfoy Manor, she was half-expecting to see her former Professor already there.

She gave her cloak to a house-elf, wishing she could have worn looser robes. She hated seeing the bulge of her belly straining against her normal robes, but it gave Narcissa such fleeting happiness that she gave in mostly gracefully. The woman had so few joys, after all, and it was really such a small thing. She made her way into the solar where Lady Malfoy was accustomed to spend her days, lounging languidly on a chaise and praying for news of her missing son. Sheer pink drapes flounced about the corners, flowing down to whisper against the polished hardwood floor. A playful breeze tugged the matching curtains, the French doors open to drown the room in the smell of roses.

"Hello, Narcissa," she greeted quietly, not wanting to scare the shattered woman.

Watery blue eyes turned slowly to her, followed by an almost smile. "Pansy, dear. Oh, you are so wonderful to come. And oh!"

Standing next to the chaise, Pansy gritted her teeth and allowed the other woman to caress her stomach. The baby couldn't even be felt yet, but Narcissa cooed and stroked and murmured fond wishes over the very slight protuberance.

These weekly visits always reminded Pansy of the folly of her own plans, the stupidity of the dreams she'd once held so dear. Once, she'd wanted nothing more than to become the younger Mrs. Malfoy, become the socialite she'd been raised to be, gracing the arm of Draco Malfoy at Ministry balls and occasions. The fineness of her wardrobe and jewelry would have been assured and she would have been the queen of pureblood circles, the very height of the social ladder. She had been convinced that her feminine wiles could have kept Draco from being a carbon copy of his father.

Narcissa Black probably had no idea of the lasting legacy she'd created in her youth at Hogwarts; there was a carefully hidden portrait of her in the girls' dormitories of Slytherin House, meant to be an example of what every Slytherin female should aspire to be. She'd been clever, malicious, graceful, regal, immaculate, stylish…She was their ideal. And now she was a wispy woman lavishing what she thought of as love over a grandchild that wasn't hers, clinging to the idea that once, forever ago, it would have been.

Pansy permitted the touch for several more minutes before finally, gently, pushing away the thin hands. She sank down onto her customary chaise, stretching her legs gratefully. The midwife had already decided that this was going to be a difficult pregnancy, given how many conflicting spells had eventually allowed its conception. She was still rather miffed about the whole situation. She'd been so careful with the contraceptives! She'd never even thought to check the house itself for negations.

The two woman, once so similar, chatted amicably of inconsequentialities while waiting for an elf to bring them tea. Narcissa's roses were always a safe subject, as was clothing and hair. The superficiality seemed to transport the older blonde to a better time, when her indulgences had genuinely brought her happiness.

Professor Snape came in with the tea elf, his black robes billowing menacingly about him. His former student simply hid her deep breath and nodded politely, Narcissa looking up at with a slightly puzzled frown. "Cissy, I'm so sorry, I should have written ahead to make sure you were unoccupied." He inclined his head gravely to Pansy, his dark eyes unreadable.

"No, Severus, it's…it's wonderful to see you." Her voice trembled but she held out a slender hand for him to kiss. "You are always welcome here." She looked between her two guests, feeling almost overwhelmed. Except for the rare occasions in which Lucius insisted she leave the house, she was rarely around so many people at once.

"Mrs. Goyle," he greeted. "How is your health?"

"In fine form. And yours?"

"Tolerable." He gestured lazily with his wand and a third chaise left the wall to form a loose circle with the other two. He didn't lounge in it as the women did, but managed a more or less comfortable sprawl.

Pansy was suddenly in mind of a great hunting cat, ready to strike despite the feigned indolence. Snape the lion. She snorted, just barely remembering to cover her nose and mouth to make the noise indistinguishable. Despite the humor in his choice of postures, he was no less dangerous for it.

The small talk resumed, the topics moving on to art and music as the professor could hardly be expected to participate in prattle on fashion. She tried to relax, to not give away her vigilance, but she couldn't quite escape the itching feeling between her shoulder blades. In the past several years, she'd grown accustomed to the man who cared for nothing and wanted only to be left alone. This actively socializing Snape was a new variable. She didn't like it one bit. Though her answers were gracious and freely given, she knew the consummate spy and Slytherin would be able to read the wariness screaming from every line of her body.

She was so busy expecting him to do something that she very nearly missed it when he did. He leaned forward, an unwontedly solicitous expression on his face, and clasped both hands about one of Narcissa's. "My dear, were you and Lucius planning anything for Draco's birthday next week?"

Her breath caught on a tremulous gasp, tears sliding down her face. Her shoulders shook fitfully and she ran from the room, her good breeding reverting to instinct; one never, ever lost control of oneself in public.

Pansy glanced at her former professor, not moving from her chair. If, in half an hour, Narcissa hadn't recovered her poise, she would send a house-elf to apologize and the younger woman would leave. "That was either tactless or heartless," she observed lightly. "Am I allowed to place a bet as to which?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he studied her minutely, as if just looking at her long enough would cause the answers he sought to pour from her lips. Occasionally it had worked, but she was no longer a schoolgirl facing a detention. She smiled sweetly, the expression charming in its utter insincerity.

"Which Pansy are you?" he asked finally.

"Beg pardon?" Whatever verbal sparring she had expected, that certainly wasn't it.

"Are you the Pansy who prevaricates flawlessly and gossips cruelly, or are you the Pansy who walks around with a vague and dreamy smile and refers to Gryffindors by their first names?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir." Her outward expression remained calm, but mentally, she swore silently and fluently. It had been too much to hope he hadn't noticed, but it had happened so long ago that it was reasonable to hope he'd forgotten it as insignificant. She'd never been able to break Luna of the habit of referring to her friends in such a way, though she'd come a long way in other things.

"Naturally not," he agreed wryly. "All the same, Miss Parkinson, I would like the book."

"Which book, sir? I have quite a library, you know."

"_The_ book, Miss Parkinson. You are quite aware of which one I speak."

She nodded in spite of herself. She did know, and like him, she wasn't about to go into more specifics. You never knew what listening spells Lord Malfoy had scattered about his house even when he wasn't there. Especially when he wasn't there. She tried desperately to remember the latest round of owls. She hadn't been able to read the missives in depth before her husband came home, but she knew the former spy had been mentioned quite prominently in several of them. Damn Gregory's timing!

"Well?"

Feeling like an awkward child, she flushed at the implied remonstrance, his brow arching with sardonic impatience. "I'm sure you would like the book, sir. Unfortunately, I don't have it."

"Are you forgetting that I saw you with it?"

"Are you forgetting how many months ago that was?" she countered archly. "That's a dangerous book to have around, Professor. I'm surely not going to carry it around with me."

"Then you could send it to me."

"I don't have it, Professor," she repeated. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," she agreed, smirking. "It seemed the polite thing to say."

He stood, his long legs unfolding beneath him, and stared down at her from his impressive height. "Indeed. I would suggest you find that book, Miss Parkinson. It wouldn't do for me to forget to put it behind one of my shields the next time I go before the Dark Lord."

She paled but made no other outward indication that she understood him. "Leaving so soon, Professor?"

"As the guest of honor is no longer here, it would seem fruitless to continue a visit."

He was nearly to the door when her voice caused him to turn back around. "Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Parkinson?"

"Draco's birthday wouldn't be for another three months."

His thin lips twitched. "I'm aware," he said simply. He got to the doorway, only to be stopped again.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Parkinson?"

"It's Mrs. Goyle."

Shaking his head, he disappeared into the hall, leaving Pansy deep in thought. She would still wait the other twenty minutes or Narcissa would be offended, but as soon as she got home, she needed to kick Gregory out of the house and write to the others. How to get rid of him?

She glanced down at her mid-section and smiled wickedly. Pregnancy craving. Perfect.

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Ginny Weasley knelt on the rug in what they jokingly called the conference room of their hideaway, situating herself so that she had a clear view of the five lit fireplaces lining the wall. There were more to the sides but the hearths remained cold and empty today; they needed only these five, very carefully enchanted through different channels to render them untraceable. Floo calls were a risk, but letters couldn't say everything and it was too risky to try and get together again so soon.

Just as the clock on the wall chimed the hour, the flames turned green and five heads hovered in the grates. Perfect, everyone was on time.

"Michael, what's new?"

"My main opponent, the one running on the neutral ticket, suddenly had an increase in campaign contributions," the young man reported, his slicked down hair so different than the careless shag he'd had at school. "We can't prove it, of course, but we have a fairly strong guess that the funds are being filtered through from England."

"Do you think you can find a way to prove it?"

Michael Corner frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know," he answered finally. "We can call for an investigation into it, and he would be in a great deal of trouble if it does get proven. It's against the law to accept money from international sources, so even with it being laundered- especially with it being laundered- it would act against him. But I don't know if the committee would be able to prove it. Many of the political structures here are frightfully inept."

"See what you can do. Plant some evidence if you have to, so long as it can't be traced back to you. Anything else?"

"Not really," he admitted. "The campaign is fairly straightforward and I've got enough numbers in the polls that I'm almost guaranteed to win. We'll find out soon, at any rate."

"How is your shutterbug working out?"

"Perfectly. There are a great many senators and cabinet members pledging support now because of his efforts. You'd be amazed at how many things these senators would like to keep secret."

"Good." The redhead brushed her hair off of one shoulder and turned to the next fire, where an angular face with large teeth nestled in the flames. "And how is Spain going?"

"Well, seeing as I don't actually have to do anything, fairly easy," Neville chuckled. "But I got a letter from Snape."

The other heads swiveled to try to see the Spanish grate, too well trained to clamor and demand further information. It would come, but they certainly wanted to be noticing everything they could. Ginny blinked, wondering if that letter had been sent out before hers. "And?"

"It was written a little while ago, it just took a while to get through the chosen channels. It was just telling me that he knew who I really was. I know it was a threat, but it didn't really seem like one."

"Maybe, maybe not," Ginny replied absently. "Anything else?"

"Are you going to tell us something we should maybe know?"

"After the reports," she promised. "Did you have anything else?"

"No. Oh, wait!" Neville's face grimaced. It was still odd to see, even after all this time, Tonks' expressions on Neville's face. It didn't happen often, but often enough that they were constantly telling her to be more careful. "A lot of businesses in Madrid- not the brothels, but a lot of the more normal businesses- have started putting up signs refusing to sell to Death Eaters or those supporting Voldemort. So far there hasn't really been a fuss about it, as there are still places open, but if it keeps going it could cause riots or retribution."

"Spain made a declaration," she mused. "Unexpected, but beneficial. Blaise?"

"The Italian Minister just signed a law making the same thing mandatory in the boot," the elegant black man reported lazily. "Rumors abound that in a month or so, he's going to sign legislation that will force all Death Eaters out of Italy, but not without first confiscating all Italian properties and assets. A few have left, the Greengrass family for example, but most don't think he's really going to do it."

"What do you think?"

"I think if Gabrielle can stage another riot close to the border and allow the buggers to respond fully, he'll sign it. He doesn't want riots, he doesn't want violence, and he's perfectly willing to strip away people's rights to ensure that peace of any sort if kept intact."

"Gabrielle?"

The quarter-veela nodded slowly, her eyes narrowed. "C'est possible," she said finally. "Ze Riviera is very nice zis time of year."

They all laughed, the sound releasing the thread of tension that had grown with the potential. "How do you think?"

Silver-blue eyes, tinged a sickly green from the flames, steadily met the gaze of their lieutenant of sorts. "Jacqueline is very ill," she announced softly. "We t'ink is it was poison, a very slow-acting one. I can put ze riot in her hands, as her face is well known beside mine. It will be a better death zan poison."

"See to it. Blaise, you'll have to make sure the Italian Ministry gets the information almost as soon as it happens. Don't let it look staged, but see if you can convince him to place a lookout in the meantime."

"I can do better than that; his eldest daughter and her children are going to the Riviera in three weeks. Think you can wait that long, Gabrielle?"

"Patience? Moi?"

It caused another ripple of laughter to echo along the line of fires. Ginny knew that they had essentially just signed innumerable death warrants, but they stood to gain an Italy entirely free of Voldemort's influence, with the possibly of Spain following their example not long after. Maybe it wasn't worth it, but it wasn't going to change their plans.

The heartbreakingly beautiful girl continued quietly. "Ze Death Eaters 'ave retreated to ze cities. Nice, Paris, Marseilles…zey 'ave left ze villages and towns entirely."

"So they have only those three strongholds?"

"Oui. Seulement les trois."

"Good. While you're waiting to vacation on the Riviera, see if you can come up with a way to get them out of the two southern cities. If we have only Paris to contend with-"

"I will see. It may take time, but Nice at least should be…how is it? Manageable?"

"Good," Ginny said again. "Good, good, good."

"Where's Scarhead?" Blaise asked suddenly, his dark eyes searching the room beyond Ginny.

"He's out getting Lee set up, introducing him to some of the villages," she answered. "Incidentally, China sent an owl; she couldn't guarantee a safe Floo connection. They've been having to move around too much."

"That's not good."

"No, it's not. It means her effectiveness is slipping, and China is falling back towards Tom's offers. We'll give it a bit more time, but it may be that we either have to do something drastic or leave it alone entirely."

"Cut her off, you mean?"

She looked across at Neville, seeing Tonks' worried expression. "If we must," she said simply. "We cannot become so focused on China that we lose track of the bigger picture. If she's failing, she's failing. Luna, what about things on your end?"

Luna's head jumped in the fire and Ginny stifled a sigh; it looked like she was going to be writing another long letter to Pansy. She hated putting that much in writing, especially given Pansy's household, but there wasn't much choice. Not when Loony Luna couldn't be relied upon to pass along the information correctly or in a timely manner. "Professor Snape asked Pansy for the book."

Several muted chokes could be heard and Ginny's eyes narrowed fiercely. "And what did she say?"

"That she didn't have it. He was visiting Narcissa Malfoy." Her protuberant eyes widened hugely, her mouth making a small 'o' of surprise. "She's dead."

"Pansy?!"

"No, Narcissa Malfoy."

Ginny put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pounding beneath her palm. "Circe, Luna, don't scare us like that! What happened to her?"

"Lucius left the country to make contact with some of his spies," she reported dreamily. "Something about taking up where Dolohov left off? He didn't tell Narcissa, so when one of her friends asked her how long Lucius had been gone, she thought he must have died. She took poison."

"Does Lucius know yet?"

"No, he hasn't yet returned in country, Pansy said. Poor Draco," she added, and Ginny didn't bother to tell her that Draco Malfoy wouldn't give a shrivelfig for her condolences. "Hannah said Professor Snape positively identified Dean's body, but doesn't seem to have given anything else away."

"No, that's what Nocturne and Lareine reported, as well," Ginny murmured. "What game is he playing at?"

"Did you send him that letter?" Blaise inquired, and the redhead nodded.

"If he replied promptly, the owl should be returning today. I admit, I'm curious as to what he has to say."

"How much longer before we can move in on getting rid of Snakeface?" Tonks wanted to know. "We're doing a lot of set up still, but if we set up too much, he's not going to have far to fall."

"No, he will," their leader corrected. "We're just going to make sure he falls through the chinks."

"Falls into China? That's not very nice, is it?"

"Blaise!"

He chuckled dryly, once again displaying his somewhat warped sense of humor. Then again, he'd grown up with his mother going through seven husbands before his sixth year, each time inheriting scads of money. Perhaps that warped a child more than a little.

An owl hooted on the other side of the locked door behind Ginny and she turned swiftly, crouching low and wand at the ready. "Dobby?"

"Second star to the right, Miss," came the house-elf's miserable, squeaky voice.

She undid the various locks and privacy charms to admit the creature holding the owl. Ginny untied the letter, thanking Dobby vaguely. Her wand slid under the seal to pop it open, taking half a breath to appreciate the address of 'Slag of Gryffindor'. Well, she had rather asked for it, hadn't she?

It was a surprisingly short letter and she read it three times before looking back to the patiently waiting heads in the flames. "He says his actions will simply have to speak for themselves."

A stunned silence followed, broken after a time by Neville. "I say don't trust him. That's ridiculous, go by his actions? He killed Dumbledore!"

"While I'm not all up in arms over sentiment for the old man, I agree. It's too dangerous to let his actions speak for themselves."

Michael and Gabrielle agreed and so, essentially, did Luna, though her vote was muddied by her statement that Professor Snape was much less dangerous than Voldemort's armies of sharvenbalts. What sharvenbalts were supposed to be, none of them knew, and none of them asked.

"I say trust him."

The five heads stared at Ginny incredulously.

Smirking slightly, she held up the small bundle that had been in the envelope with the single piece of parchment. The thick lock of silky black hair had been tied with a white ribbon, clinging together with some residual potions fumes from whatever he'd been working on. She could identify some of the ingredients by smell, but that wasn't really important. "I say trust him," she repeated firmly. "Otherwise, he would have known it was far too dangerous to give us so much of his hair given the risks we take. He's giving us leverage, and he's giving it to us on purpose. So let's see what gambits the old man's spy has left in him."


	13. Tumbling Palace

**Disclaimer: As per usual, I do not own the characters, merely the individual quirks of the situation.**

_A/N: Yay for the Order of the Phoenix movie! It made me very happy! As always, please review; give a depressed unemployed person a smile. Also, I post updates and such (and the title of the next chapter) on my profile whenever I post a new chapter, so check it out. As for the final book, all I will say is: Holy fuck._

_A/N2: There are a few __**Deathly Hallows SPOILERS**__ in this chapter. Nothing major, but if you haven't finished the book yet, you may want to wait on this chapter._

**Chapter Thirteen: Tumbling Palace**

If there was a hell, Severus decided, and if on the very slim chance that it wasn't full of first year Potions essays, it was opera. He enjoyed classical music, he enjoyed the theatre, and he even enjoyed- in very small doses and only when very well done- certain operas, but as a whole, he detested the genre. It was far too easy to do poorly, leaving the audience at night's end with further appreciation for nothing more than headache potions.

But, there he was, seated in the private box and trying not to rub his temples as flamboyantly dressed singers pranced about the stage. Even if it had been different subject matter, it would have been distressing. Salazar Slytherin did not prance. Even if he had been so foolish as to attempt to court the equally arrogant and historically rather frigid Rowena Ravenclaw, he certainly would not have done so while _prancing_. It was utterly disgraceful and supremely undignified. Prancing, indeed. As if he was a ballerina flitting about with robes and wand.

He heard a muffled snicker from beside him and turned his not-unimpressive glare upon Madame Lareine. She was supremely unaffected. In fact, he would hazard the guess that she was enjoying his discomfort.

They had continued their charade, going out to dinner several times a week, occasionally in the company of other members of the Inner Circle. Tonight was the first night he'd been forced to the indignity of the utterly unthinkable: a double date with his former students. The younger Goyles sat behind him, the other couple in the box. It was absolutely unsupportable.

Still, it kept the Dark Lord happy, and a happy Dark Lord was an unsuspecting Dark Lord. The former Tom Riddle had very little else to be happy about these days; Gabrielle's riot on the Riviera had prompted the Italian Minister to sign the bold law that forbade any supporter of Voldemort from living in or visiting Italy. Many Death Eaters stationed there had barely escaped with their lives; none had escaped with their property, and their Master was not inclined to provide restitution. Spain, in a similar response, had stepped up its own restrictions. Almost no businesses would sell to the Dark Lord's minions, and the environment was growing increasingly hostile. The round-faced Longbottom did nothing to egg it on, merely continued his appearances and gave that goofy, buck-toothed smile to everyone impartially.

He was both relieved and resentful when the intermission came. Relieved, because even the inane chattering of those still in their seats was better than the calamity on stage. Resentful, because it meant there was still another two hours yet to suffer through.

Pansy smirked at him, looking elegant in dark sapphire robes with her blonde hair swept up in a twist. "Well, Professor? What think of you of the performance thus far?"

"Rowena is flat."

"Well, we can't expect that every woman would have Madame Lareine's more impressive attributes."

He gave her a long, level look. "I was referring to her voice."

"Of course."

The madam snickered again into her fan. She couldn't recall the last time she'd had such a good time, for all that she agreed with the Potions Master in finding the opera abominable. "I didn't realize Godric Gryffindor was a castrati," she remarked placidly. "It explains a great deal about his House."

"Yes, they all rather start out that way, don't they?" She raised an eyebrow at Severus, matching his expression. It was an innocent enough statement at face value, for all that they knew it meant much more.

"Will you be present for Lady Malfoy's funeral, Professor?"

"Is it not being delayed to await Lucius' return?"

"He is out of country at the moment," Pansy replied, knowing full well that he already knew that. "As it is uncertain when he will return, it was felt best to proceed in timely manner. No doubt a memorial will be held when he is back in country."

"No doubt," he agreed sardonically. "No doubt Lady Flint is feeling quite guilty, as well."

"Yes, well, stupid as she is, how was the woman to know her words would be taken in such a fashion? She only meant to ask how long Lucius had been out of England, she didn't mean to imply that he was dead."

"Narcissa has not been the steadiest of souls these few years past."

The young woman nodded. She felt badly for Narcissa, truly she did. It was a lamentable end for any woman, especially one who had once enjoyed life so much as the former Lady Malfoy. Despite herself, her hand found its way to the bare bulge of her abdomen. The life beneath her palm could still not be felt, though she knew it was there. If her child were to die before her, would she shatter? She didn't think so, but then, she hadn't thought that Narcissa would come apart quite so badly either.

The faery lights dimmed and all four sighed, resigning themselves to another two hours of hell.

Severus and Lareine took their leave of the Goyles at the door to the theatre, making their way through the streets back to Diagon Alley. They walked in companionable silence, her fingertips resting lightly on his arm.

Diagon Alley was changing, she mused. Immediately following the Dark Lord's victory, it had exploded in an orgy of Darkness and depravation, but with time it was beginning to mellow into a semblance of its former self. The more outrageous items were gradually melting back into the confines of Knockturn Alley. Disregarding the late hour, there were more children allowed to roam with friends from Flourish and Blotts to Quality Quidditch Supplies, rather than being latched to their parents' sides or not allowed in the Alley at all. The evolution of Diagon Alley, like the preparations to reopen Hogwarts, was a sign of the tyrant's wish to civilize, to genuinely rule and flourish. How a man so obsessed with death could be fascinated by the minutiae of life she had yet to understand, but there it was, clear as the nose on her companion's face.

They didn't break their silence until they were safely ensconced in Lareine's study with glasses of pale, chilled wine. It was overly sweet for his taste, but it made an excellent kind of dessert in and of itself so he drank sparingly and made no comment.

"You've said, Lareine, that you do not know all the pieces of the puzzle, but are you in contact with the ringleaders?"

She glanced away from adding the dried helonius to the bubbling cauldron. "In a way," she answered after a time. "I can get letters to a halfway point. After that, I can only guess at the direction the letters take."

"But the letters do get there safely?"

"Yes, Severus, what is this about?"

He pulled a sealed packet from an inner pocket in his robes and laid it on the table beside the bottle of wine. "Then you can get that to them?"

"If I wish it." She finished adding the herb and dusted her hands away from the cauldron, wiping them off on a damp cloth for good measure. "Convince me that I want to."

"It is a proposal, nothing more." He drained his glass and set it down, declining the refill she silently offered.

"A proposal of?"

"Action." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs comfortably. "Spain is closely following the way of Italy; they need only a small nudge in the right direction to make it irrevocable."

"And you have an idea of what that nudge should be."

"I do. Spain, like Italy, has stood out in your efforts in that there has been no violence involved. Indeed, the Spanish are quite convinced that Longbottom is the epitome of benevolent goodwill."

"Your point is?"

"If Longbottom were to become the victim of an assassination attempt, the tragedy would likely send the Spanish Minister scrambling for his quill to join with Italy in refuting the rights of the Dark Lord's emissaries and friends."

Her faded blue eyes narrowed, her hand twitching at her side. He wondered idly if she was wishing for her wand or pen knife. "I trust there's more?"

Lareine's rooms were secure, he knew that. It didn't stop him from drawing his wand and casting a layered Silencing Charm atop her normal precautions. "If they still have some of Longbottom's hair, it would be very well done to combine with it some of their ever-present supply of Polyjuice Potion. They could quite convincingly make it seem as though it were truly Longbottom that was dead."

"Why would they need Polyjuice when she-"

"It's unknown whether a Metamorphmagus returns to their natural state at death or not," he went on impatiently, "but that's a rather academic point, as Miss Tonks won't be there."

"Substitute the bodies."

"As they've done before."

"And where would you then send her?"

"To France."

She thought about it for several minutes, a painted nail tapping against her pursed lips. She blew out a frustrated breath, giving in not altogether gracefully. "Lord Snape, if you would please explain fully, so that we lesser mortals may understand?"

He smirked at her resentful admission, his long-fingered hands curling over the arms of the chair. "It makes no sense to waste people in countries that have already declared their allegiance to your cause, especially not people with talents like Tonks'. Give Spain a martyr to canonize and move her on to France, in the guise of Draco Malfoy."

"Mmm, Lucius would certainly be thrilled about that development."

"Indubitably, as would the Dark Lord. Bad enough that his age-old enemies still oppose him, but for the traitor to suddenly appear again? It would throw him off balance."

"An off balance madman," she noted wryly. "It sounds more like the recipe for an explosion than any sort of useful potion."

"Draco would fit the French aesthetic on his own, but he would also look quite well next to Miss Delacour, with their similar coloring. Narcissa's death is officially labeled an accident, and truthfully so-"

"-but if the young Mister Malfoy were to suddenly start accusing that his mother's death was murder…"

"A handsome patrician mourning the loss of his mother: quite possibly the French ideal for the foundation of a hero."

Her lips curved in a smile. It was not a nice smile, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was distinctly menacing, and it slowly brought an answering smile to his own mouth. "I'll see that they get your missive. Now go say goodnight."

Women were an incomprehensible species, he reflected not for the last time, unknowable to their male counterparts. He hadn't forgotten the ruthlessness with which Lareine had seduced him, and he mentally balanced that against the girlish enthusiasm she presented on their unlikely outings, the cool intellect she displayed during their meetings, and the callous indifference she displayed towards most other people's suffering. And yet, with all that, she still made him feel like a student fresh from the Yule Ball when she ordered him to go say goodnight to Nocturne.

Nothing had been explicitly stated, but he was aware that Lareine had been carefully tapering off Nocturne's schedule. He wasn't sure whose sensibilities she was indulging, or if it was purely for the most practical purpose of allowing her to focus on their endeavors, but it meant that she was almost always free to see him, no matter what time he went. He knocked lightly on the door, going through it when he didn't get a response.

Nocturne was absorbed in a sheet of equations, not even looking up at his entrance. No one else ever bothered to knock, so it couldn't be anyone other than him. Thanatos sprawled on the floor by her feet, cold grey eyes tracking a fly as it zipped about the room. At random intervals, he Summoned it into his hand and let it go without any injury. He looked up and nodded politely at the newcomer, releasing the fly from his palm.

Severus sat down at the table beside Nocturne, glancing over at her work. The handwriting was not what he remembered, but that was somehow unsurprising. They'd been so careful with everything else; they weren't about to get tripped up with such a little thing as penmanship. His eyes narrowed at the Dark inflection tracing through the lines. _Very_ ruthless.

When the equation had resolved, she set it aside and raised an eyebrow at him, her version of a welcome. He inclined his head in response, absently running a hand over her hair. Pulling the sheet towards him, he studied the equation from start to finish, trying to figure out what it entailed. Whatever symbols she'd chosen to represent the variables, she'd disguised their meanings well, and he set the parchment down none the wiser.

"Be glad you didn't accept the invitation," he told her, fingers grazing the back of her neck. "It was four and a half hours of my life that I will never be able to regain."

Her lips quirked and she shook her head.

"My lack of appreciation had nothing to do with either my gender or my personality," he continued, chiding her for her doubtful expression. "The others found it just as abysmal as I did."

He found himself recalling Pansy's rejoinder to his observation of the main actress, half-chuckling at the memory. Then he realized that he was still looking into Nocturne's wide lavender eyes.

His first instinct was to shut his eyes, to back away. It explained so much! It explained how they knew word for word what was going on in the Inner Circle, it explained how they'd been able to warn people, to plan reactions before the trigger event even occurred. Helplessly awed, he sank his head into his arms on the table and laughed, tears streaming down his angular face. It was the first true laugh he could remember having in a very, very long time and he was fully aware that both his companions were staring at him in bewilderment. He just couldn't seem to stop laughing, though. It was all too much. Here he was, an acknowledged master of Legilimency and Occlumency, and he'd missed gods only knew how many invasions of his mind by the elfin-eyed wench.

Finally the storm passed and he rose back up in the chair, wiping at his face. "You clever little minx," he told her breathlessly.

Nocturne and Thanatos exchanged a wary look, their hands floating carefully to their wands.

Severus captured her face in his hands, his dark eyes still dancing in admiring amusement. "You wretched, brilliant, clever little minx." And he kissed her, his mouth moving firmly against hers until she couldn't help but respond.

Thanatos made a face and closed his eyes, reassured that his ward wasn't in any danger from the discovery. There were things he just didn't need to see.

Pulling away from her, Severus smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks. "Little minx," he said again. Shaking his head, he left the pair in the room, closing the door behind him. He hadn't technically said goodnight as Lareine had told him to, but in a way, this was much better.

Thanatos opened his eyes, observing the young woman with a neutral expression. Scowling, she took a swat at the chessboard and sent one of the pieces flying. She sighed and picked it up at his reproving look, replacing the black pawn on the board. After a second, her scowl deepened and she neatened the white ribbon tied around its neck.

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He was back in the gold and mahogany office, rigid against the high-backed chair. For the first time, and he wasn't sure if it was a mark of prestige or not, there was a padded ottoman on which he could rest his feet. He wasn't sure yet it he was actually going to use it, but it was there, and for some reason that was very disconcerting. A steaming cup of tea sat on the desk at his right elbow. There was even a television. He'd grown up with his father's broken set in pride of place in the living room of Spinner's End.

This set was not broken, and it was tuned onto a station that was displaying the gathered results of the election in America. It was absurdly early in the morning but he didn't dare complain. For whatever reason, the Dark Lord wanted him to sit this vigil with him. He wasn't going to argue. There were nearly twenty states still tallying their votes, but so far it seemed that Michael Corner was leading by a decided margin.

A yawning Miss Sigurdson brought them plates of warmed muffins, with vague promises of eggs and sausages when the cafeteria was up and running. At her employer's insistence, she joined them in the office rather than retreating back to her desk, bringing her knitting with her. Her long needles clacked sedately, the yarn alternating in panels of black and white as she manually performed the task.

With the air of a man doing something he knows he will regret later, Severus glanced at the muffin on the Dark Lord's plate. Apple cinnamon. As he watched, the impossibly long fingers neatly peeled away the pastel yellow paper cup and he bit down delicately, chewing slowly and thoughtfully.

"Over twenty years you've been with me, Severus," Tom said suddenly, thankfully swallowing before crumbs could spray out across the table. "Over twenty years."

"Yes, my Lord."

"I was surprised when Lucius brought you to me, knowing his opinions on things. But then, you had been placed in Slytherin despite your birth, and you kept that a close enough secret as both student and adult."

Had he really been called here at this obscene hour of the morning to _reminisce_? He masked his irritation by sipping his tea, wishing it were stronger.

"You were so hungry, then." Incarnadine eyes traveled fondly over the saturnine man before him. "So very hungry, Severus. You grew so well into your power."

"Only through your benevolence, my Lord," he replied politely.

"The old fool never understood the dangers of those closest to him."

It took everything Severus had, every iota of skill and subterfuge he'd gained over the past two decades, to not choke on his tea. Tom really had no idea. It was almost incomprehensible to him. Hadn't both of his Masters made many claims of their cleverness, of their ability to read people? Hadn't they both prided themselves on their ability to unravel plots before they could reach their intended targets? Unfortunately, it seemed that his current Master was waiting for some sort of response, so he nonchalantly tossed out the first thing he thought was safe to say. "He trusted people too much. He seemed to think it made him a better person."

"It made him weak and foolish. All of his talk about 'for the greater good', as if good was what really mattered. There is no good or evil, Severus; I've said it before and I shall say it many more times. There is no good or evil, only power. Dumbledore was offered it countless times and turned it aside, showing his weakness."

But Severus was fairly sure that he'd known the Headmaster much, much better than the disfigured man before him. Albus had not always been a _good_ man, contrary to what everyone from Potter on down wished to believe. Certainly he had not always been _nice_. That phrase, the idea and notion of something being for the greater good, still sent reactionary shivers down his spine. Inevitably, those asked to do the most for the greater good were the ones who wouldn't be able to enjoy it. That had been his own expectation. For two decades, he'd labored under Albus Dumbledore and wondered what kind of greater good he could possibly be serving, when it was founded upon a man who had been the friend of the world's previous celebrated Dark Lord.

All in all, Severus was grateful to be distracted from his thoughts by the reappearance of a news anchor on the television screen, the wavy brown hair perfectly coiffed despite the late hour over in the States. He wondered dispassionately how much caffeine had gone into manufacturing that perfect smile, mentally writing the man off as a brunet Lockhart. Hmm, it seemed that there was a confusion in the vote count in Florida…surprise, surprise. He shook his head, wondering why the American wizards continued to perform their election process as the mirror of their Muggle counterparts, when there were so many more efficient ways to do things. Certainly you never had British wizards and witches clamoring for a recount after one of their elections.

Florida aside, however, he could see that three more states had declared their totals. One had been marked for the neutral opposition. Three had been marked for Corner. The boy had been entirely unremarkable in school. He wasn't the brightest of the Ravenclaws, he wasn't a stand-out at Quidditch or any other academic or extracurricular activity. In fact, the only reason most of the faculty had singled him out at all in their attention was mild curiosity at his being included in the string of Miss Weasley's boyfriends. There he was, however, three thousand miles across the pond and bringing a country to his knees.

Would he be up to running it? Certainly he'd shown himself capable of campaigning and getting himself elected. Unlike the Dark Lord, Severus harbored no fancy, and certainly no wish, that the boy would be defeated in a dark horse turnaround. Such things had, of course, been known to happen in previous elections, but he didn't foresee it happening in this one. No, the question wasn't whether or not Corner could get the job he was applying for; the question was whether or not he could perform it. If they got their goal, if they failed in their goal…would he still act out his responsibilities as a duly elected official of the American Wizarding Government?

It bothered him supremely that he'd heard no mention of any plans for 'after', if indeed there was an after. Lareine seemed utterly unconcerned about this lack and refused to be drawn into his deliberations on the subject. He'd heard nothing of any intentions to replace the Dark Lord with a suitable leader, one who could fill the void of authority and capably smooth the transition from this world to the next. The only plans of which he was peripherally aware circled the notion of revenge, not of setting things 'right', whatever right was.

The thing was, given their timing, Corner wouldn't be able to actually do much for their cause as the American Wizarding President. Even if- when- he won, it would still be several months before he took office, and all of his motions had to be supported by the Houses of Congress. It took time to mobilize and fund the army, to garner the necessary support for bills and declarations, and his companions were stepping up the timeline without him. They'd purposefully escalated Italy into becoming a direct danger to Voldemort's European power, and Spain was very, very close to toppling the same tower. France was in a constant uproar, with its citizens unable to determine who to blame for the rivers of blood flowing through their beloved lavender fields. Gabrielle had always been careful, so very careful, to make sure that none of her people was ever seen instigating violence, and she preferred not to have to instigate the bloodshed at all if she could possibly avoid it. He doubted this had anything to do with her personal scruples as it did with her public image rising with each attack she could prove was started by Voldemort's minions.

He'd been let in on the game but not the rules, and he despised the feeling of floundering blindly in the dark. There just wasn't enough time to be ignorant.

While his thoughts meandered on their dark and twisting path, the rest of the contested states slowly settled into a brightly colored map. White had been the color of choice for Corner's third-party candidacy, and forty-two of the fifty states were white as snow on the screen. If the ratio had been slightly different, if his opponent had won more of the larger states, the ones with more weight in the electoral college, things could still have been very chancy for the chess players. But Corner had significantly more than the popular vote; with the way the electoral college was designed, it was now officially impossible for Corner to lose. In a few months, the American-born wizard, despite being raised in Portsmouth, would be taking his inaugural oaths.

He stared with mild disinterest at the crash of china and the slow trickle of tea suddenly dripping down the screen. Then he took a chance. "My Lord, I honestly wouldn't worry myself over such a little thing."

"Such a little thing?" Voldemort echoed dangerously. "Such a little thing, when a country that was supposed to remain neutral is now being summoned to arms against me?"

"If our compatriots do their jobs correctly, there will be no opposition for the Americans to support," he said carefully, setting down his teacup in case he had to make a suicidal reach for his wand. "The boy is useless until he actually takes the oath of office; even then, there are jungles of red tape to wade through. We simply have to make sure that there are no Ural insurgents for the Americans to assist when the time comes for Corner's first national address."

Voldemort frowned, thinking his way through it and finally nodding. "I've called Lucius back from Russia; he's useless there."

Despite himself, Severus felt a stab of pity for his former friend. 'Useless' was not a description you wanted leveled at you by the Dark Lord; the appellation generally promised pain. Lots and lots and lots of pain.

"I'm sending Sanderson Harker instead," Tom continued thoughtfully. "He worked in the Aurory with Shacklebolt; perhaps he'll be able to identify this new Shacklebolt."

"New Shacklebolt?" Severus repeated curiously. "They've brought forward another one?"

"It certainly seems that way." Sighing, he didn't even notice when Ingrid silently brought him a new cup of tea. He absently grasped the handle and brought it to his lipless mouth, blowing gently at the steam wreathing around his reptilian face. "This one picked up exactly where the other one left off. He hasn't even mentioned the attack or any assassination attempt, which leads me to believe that this is the same one and the Mudblood was purely a decoy."

It was a possibility, he reflected, one that he'd already come up with himself, but Severus got the feeling there was more to it than that. Why would they have made Thomas only a decoy? But why were they repeating? What stood to be gained, other than unsettling the already paranoid despot, by keeping the appearance of Shacklebolt intact? What was the advantage in doing that rather than resurrecting some other rebellious face?

"Your face reveals nothing as usual, Severus. What are you thinking?"

"Trying to understand why Shackebolt is such an important token in their strategy," he replied honestly. Why not? It was exactly what the Dark Lord was thinking, and overlooking such a crucial piece of information was hardly in keeping with the meticulous Potions Master and spy. "They've shown no reluctance to revive the simulation of deceased Order members and students, but there's a reason, somewhere, for Shackebolt to be needed at the risk of exposing him to another attempt."

"Ishtari Clemens reports, very cautiously might I add, that she is having some success in being able to draw out Potter and Weasley. Never together, but she is performing small attacks on the villages after one or the other of them has departed. It isn't a definable pattern, but sometimes they return to make another speech to the survivors; she hopes to be able to apprehend one of them at one such event."

Severus nodded abstractedly, though his memory was automatically filing the thought away for future perusal. Was it possible…? He needed to find out whether or not there was Muggle coverage on the unfolding events. If there was…Kingsley had been assigned for a time as secretary to the Muggle Prime Minister. He was recognizable by the Muggle public. If they were intending to break the International Statutes of Secrecy in such a manner, his face would be the best to use because it was one they already loosely associated with their own authorities. It was a broad leap to make, possibly erroneous, but it was still a potential reason.

"Go, Severus," Voldemort commanded quietly. "I've kept you far too late, and neither of us is as young as we used to be."

He blinked at the rather surreal experience of having the Dark Lord tell him, almost word for word, the same thing Dumbledore had told him so very many times. Not trusting himself to speak, he stood and bowed, walking silently out of the room.

To his surprise, the secretary followed him out, her knitting in one hand as the other pulled the door tightly closed. "I'm to fetch his breakfast," she told him in answer to his inquisitive eyebrow. She set the knitting down on her desk and withdrew a blank sheet of parchment from underneath her large calendar, handing it to him. "This might interest you, when you're alone. Just remember that it needs a special touch."

Nodding bemusedly, he pocketed the faded ivory page and left the Ministry, his footsteps ringing in the grand and empty hall. This section of hallway was only a few years old, leading out towards Diagon Alley so that wizards no longer had to sully themselves with Muggle methods when attempting to enter. They'd built the hall and then the long gate opening out onto the expanded Alley. They'd built their own trophy wall before decorating it with the grisly remains of would-be heroes. He turned back once, glancing over his shoulder as the gate swung closed. It was almost impossible now to discern where the Golden Trio had once hung; only the rope gave any indication, as the weather had finally brought the darker sections into conformity with the rest of the wood.

That image still in his head, he Apparated to his lonely country house and immediately pulled the parchment out of his pocket. It needs a special touch…

He closed his eyes and sank down into one of the armchairs in his living room. That it wasn't dusty and rotting was a testament only to the efficacy of his house elves. It needs a special touch…why did that seem familiar? Racking his formidable memory, he absently smoothed the crease in the corner with his thumb. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of black ink before it faded back into an aged ivory.

"Blaise," he groaned, rubbing at his temples. It had been one of Zabini's specialties, whenever he was courting a girl. He would give them long, seductive letters that only they could read, often dissolving aphrodisiacs into the ink so that as the young woman's touch revealed the message, they became more and more aroused. He'd taken the young man to task for this several times over the years but not very seriously; as long as Zabini hadn't acted upon the impulses the aphrodisiacs created, there hadn't been much of a need to severely censure him. Zabini had merely enjoyed the game and the power.

Summoning the coffee table closer to him, he bent over and laid the parchment flat on the polished ebony surface. Starting at the top left, he ran his index finger in carefully measured lines across the page, reading the message as it revealed. Only a few seconds after his finger moved on, the previous words would fade back into nothingness, and he knew very well that it had been engineered so that only his touch would activate the ink. If he'd still been a teacher, he would have awarded points for such cleverness.

_Good morning, Professor. I assume it still morning, or has Snakeface really kept you all day to keep him company while he gets the bad news? Well, I am going to say it is morning, and am going to be presumptuous enough to wish you enjoyment of having the rest of the day to gloat over your peripheral involvement in Corner's success. After all, the success of one reflects marginally well on us all._

_To business, then, having lost none of my impression of your impatience over the years of distance. Your idea about France was an inspired one, and already it is in the works. We're thinking perhaps a week; our girls have to meet, after all, to determine their strategy, and Neville needs time to learn how to be Draco. They're very different people, and the shy clumsiness and endearing smile won't be enough to win France over. I've taken the liberty of arranging for Lady Flint's memories to be modified slightly; I know the elder Malfoy will want to investigate his wife's death, if for no other reason than to convince himself of its accidental qualities. Lady Flint will remember deciding to visit Narcissa, but then her memories will be a muddy haze until she arrived safely home again with the visit finished. Hopefully, Lucius will read it as remnant conditions from a time under the Imperius and will raise the suitable inquiries. Hopefully, I say again. The man isn't nearly as predictable as he once was._

_Italy having accomplished what it needed to do, I'll be moving on as well. I'm thinking Ireland. I want to be close to home for the next stage. There's enough hereditary rancor there to play with, though I haven't decided yet entirely what I'm going to do. For now, I'm simply going to see if waxing eloquent about Seamus Finnigan will win me some support on the Emerald Isle. England and Scotland are just too dangerous at the moment, too damn close. Ireland is at least separated by some water, even if it's not terribly much. _

_Is it true that Snakeface has asked you to be Headmaster of the old alma mater when it reopens? Ingrid said she a meeting scheduled for _Severus Snape, re: Headmaster_, which sounds pretty blatant to me unless it was to obtain a recommendation for the post. But it seems to me that Snakeface should know you well enough by now to realize that you never have a positive recommendation for anyone. No Slug Club for you, thank Merlin. However, I truly don't think I can see you as Headmaster, though Filch would no doubt be delighted at the reinstatement of some of the more severe punishments and detentions. The mere thought of him salivating over those chains of his makes me shudder._

_I'll keep you updated as I may, though I daresay you'll hear of me often enough in terms of greatest disdain and rancor. And, if you get the chance, give the Ferret's Father a good swift kick up the arse for all of us, would you? He's irritating, and we don't even have any decent pearls to show for it._

_Blaise_

Pinching the bridge of his nose against the building headache, Severus closed his eyes and sat back into the chair. Why had he forgotten how annoyingly urbane Blaise always tried to be? It was a relief from the unintelligent grunts of Crabbe and Goyle in the classroom, but just as infuriating in its own fashion.

Ireland…Hmm.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Asphodel!

The house-elf appeared instantly in the entryway, his long ears flattened anxiously against his head as he looked up at his human. "Master?"

"Take this owl and care for it; it has been injured."

Watching the small green creature twitter over the pitifully hooting avian, Severus wondered idly if he should feel guilty for accidentally hexing it halfway to hell and back. But then, he wasn't the one who had suddenly burst through a temporarily open window and landed right on top of his head. He picked up the letter from the floor, seeing Lareine's writing on the outside.

He frowned, turning it over in his hands before opening it. He recognized the quality of the writing, as he'd seen it only once before. Last time, it was summoning him to a sickbed. It didn't make him kindly disposed towards opening the missive now, but foreshadows of disaster were no excuse for complete ignorance.

Opening it, he found only four words scrawled across the sheet, the final word underlined so savagely it had ripped a hole in the scrap parchment. The page fluttered to the floor as he grabbed his cloak and turned, Apparating out of the house.

_Nocturne taken. Come __NOW_

He appeared on the doorstep of the Lair and immediately brushed past the fawn-haired angel at the door, racing up to Nocturne's room. It was most uncharacteristically disheveled, sheets of music torn and scattered about the room. The bed curtains lay in tattered heaps on the floor, the table and chairs overturned violently, the legs of one chair creating bizarre angles. Black and white chess pieces lay all over the room, the board cracked in two at the base of the shattered window.

Lareine looked up from the floor where she cradled a bleeding Thanatos' head in her lap. "Thank Merlin," she cried lowly, her relief as frightening as the scene. "I don't know what happened, Severus, but Nocturne's gone!"

Seeing her on the verge of panic, he savagely quelled his irritation at her unaccustomed hysteria and knelt beside her, checking the bodyguard with professional detachment. He could see, once again, the bloody results of his invented spell, the deep gashes curving along his chest and sides. The long platinum hair was matted with blood, and he could only assume that the back of his head was the source of the thick red liquid decorating the halved table. Peeling back the eyelids, he could barely see the irises, but the pupils were large and dilated, not usually a good sign. But, he was breathing, and if they got dittany on him quickly, they could possibly prevent the scars. He sniffed the air and saw Lareine holding a vial out to him with a trembling hand.

"I had it for Toy's back," she whispered. "Yaxley likes to use the whips, so we always follow his sessions with dittany so that it will heal cleanly."

He merely nodded, cleaning the wounds by magic and carefully pouring the dittany directly into the exposed injuries. It wasn't his preferred method, but _Sectumsempra_ demanded speed rather than delicacy. Besides, Thanatos was unconscious, and unconscious men couldn't scream with pain. Thankfully. "Open his door; it doesn't look like it was interfered with."

Lareine rose to her feet and shoved open the door to the connecting room, her hands slowly starting to steady despite her employee's blood drying on her robes. The plain, almost severe room had indeed been left untouched, though for what reason she couldn't fathom. She watched Severus perform more cleaning and healing spells before laying the younger man on top of the black sheets.

The chess set he and Severus had utilized many times during and after Nocturne's glamour sickness lay neatly on the end table, its pieces stored in an open velvet lined case with little hollows to denote the placement of each piece. A small table held stacks and stacks of paper, some of which he recognized as Nocturne's Arithmancy equations and others which held sheets he couldn't recognize. Some of the handwriting looked familiar, some didn't, but his mind refused to dwell on the rather insignificant problem quite at the moment. The only real trace of color in the room came from a bright orange Chudley Cannons poster emblazoned on one wall. It was an astonishingly youthful souvenir to have and he actually stared at it for several minutes before shaking his head and moving on to more important things.

"What did the girl at the door-"

"Minuet."

"-notice?" he continued, ignoring the interruption.

Taking a deep breath, the blond woman smoothed her sticky robes and sank down into the lone chair at the table. "She said Jarvis Greengrass came in early for his appointment with Luna, but when he lived here in London he was always unceasingly punctilious, so she didn't think anything of it. Then half an hour later, just before his scheduled appointment time, another Jarvis Greengrass came in. She notified Rachel, who got me immediately from Toy's room, but when I got here, it was like this," she explained, indicating the catastrophe outside with a wave of her hand. "The second Greengrass was the real one, we've confirmed that much, but this isn't Spain; glamours and such not are perfectly legal here."

"The window was broken; it's easy enough to shrink a broomstick to your pocket and then enlarge it when it's time to escape."

"But who-"

"Who has a reason to want to kidnap or harm Nocturne, injure Thanatos, and can't come in openly to do it?"

He was relieved to see her forehead knit in a ferocious scowl. "Malfoy," she hissed, her hair rising around in a static wave as he fury strained her control. "I'll kill him."

"No, you won't," he corrected coolly. "You will beg me to retrieve your favorite girl, and as a favor to you I will do so. I will then be able to explain to the Dark Lord that my affection for you led me to punish Lucius more than was my due, and I'll contritely turn him over. That keeps us both safe."

"Always thinking, aren't you?" she asked bitterly.

"My old friend is no longer entirely stable. This proves that. Let us remove the incendiary variable while there is still a chance to do so."

The man on the bed groaned and tried to lift a hand to his aching head, a moan of pain ripping from his chest as the arm fell limply back to the bed.

"You'll be in pain for some time, my friend," Severus said quietly, mindful of the internal pounding the man was no doubt experiencing.

His lips moved soundlessly, forming a single word the Potions Master recognized all too easily.

"Nocturne is taken, but she is no doubt located within Malfoy Manner." Hesitantly, he laid a hand on an uninjured portion of the blond man's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You cannot protect her there, but I can find her. Stay and heal; you'll do so much more quickly and easily if you do so with your glamours off." The grey eyes opened and fixed on him intently, taking a moment or two to haze into focus, but he didn't struggle against either the hand or the suggestion.

For the life of him, Severus couldn't identify the impulse that prompted his next action; he only knew it was stupid. "I'll bring her back. I promise."

Mindful of Thanatos' neutral gaze, so like Nocturne's, and Lareine's poorly concealed shock, he left the tiny room in a swirl of black robes, wondering what had caused him to make such a rash promise. Promises could never be made, there was absolutely no way for him to know if he could keep this one. But even as he castigated himself on the way to the main door of the establishment so he could Apparate, he knew that he would have made the promise even after thinking it through. Even if he couldn't guarantee he'd be able to keep it, it was for some reason a very important oath to make.

He appeared just outside the Apparation wards of Malfoy Manner, his lip curling in a cruel smile as a plan began to form in his mind. It was time to take back what he had claimed as his.


	14. Rubicon

**Disclaimer: I make no money off of Harry Potter or any of its affiliations, subsidiaries, or bastard offspring. Damn, I sure wish I did!**

_A/N: And here we are again, coming off of another hiatus. Mea maxima culpa! Real Life is still being quite the bitch, at the moment, so updates will continue to be spotty. But, nowhere near as spotty as they've been, I promise. No more six month crawls. As always, if you can possibly forgive me, please review! Reviews feed the muse!_

**Chapter Fourteen: Crossing the Rubicon**

Severus took a deep breath once he appeared outside the gates to Malfoy Manor. It wouldn't do to go in as anything less than calm. Now when so much was at stake. He knew very well that he had to either convince or force Lucius to take him to wherever he was hiding Nocturne; there was a veritable warren underneath the manor, each with its own concealed secrets, and a lifetime wouldn't be enough to find someone so well hidden. He took another deep breath, then another, each time inhaling the memory of lavender and heather.

When he was more or less certain of controlling himself, he passed through the gates and started up the long walk to the house proper, his black robes snapping about his ankles. The doors were already opened when he arrived, supported by a trembling house-elf. He supposed it to have been alerted by the opening of the gates. It stared up at him with glossy eyes, already terrified of whatever punishment it might receive through no fault of its own.

"I wish to see your master."

"This ways, sirs," it squeaked back at him. Was it male or female? It was nearly impossible to tell, and Severus didn't much care.

The dour potions master followed the creature through the house, ignoring the ostentatious splendor of the accoutrements. Gilded mirrors, stunning portraits, serpents everywhere…it was a display he'd long since become used to, and learned to disregard as the waste of time and funds that it was. The house-elf led him to Lucius' private study.

What a contrast it was to Narcissi's elegant parlor. It was a study of masculinity, all deep browns and gold, leather and suede where his wife's haven had been soft peaches and pinks, all chiffon and chintz. A fire blazed in the hearth, warning a decanter of fine brandy on the table before it. Lucius himself sat in a wing-backed chair facing the hearth and fire, his long blond hair in disarray around him. Despite his otherwise immaculate appearance, he reeked of sweat and perhaps of fear.

One thing, however, was infinitely clear; Lucius was waiting for him, and he had not been waiting long.

He sat down in the chair opposite Lucius without invitation, settling into his habitual pose in such chairs. Right ankle propped against his left knee, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair to let his fingers lace together against his lips. His thumbs absently smoothed the narrow goatee as he regarded his friend from hooded eyes.

Lucius had been recalled from Russia for his uselessness, but the timeliness of Narcissa's death prevented him from too much censure from the Dark Lord. They could use that, he realized suddenly. It was easy enough to say Narcissa's death was murder, but this would make it easier to believe. He filed that thought away in the back of his mind to have Lareine pass on. He supposed he could simply tell Thanatos, or even Nocturne once he recovered her, but he still preferred to use Lareine as his intermediary. It brought fewer questions to his dreams and nightmares, made them merely memory and castigation.

"My old friend," Lucius greeted him finally, never taking his eyes from the flames. "A surprise, to be sure."

"I think not," he disagreed, nodding towards the brandy and the two waiting glasses.

"Indeed. What puzzles me, however, is why you are here. Is our lord not most assured of your fidelity to Madame Lareine?"

"Precisely." He allowed the blond man to puzzle through it for several moments before he deigned to explain. "She does not appreciate being stolen from."

"I have stolen nothing of hers."

"That is not the truth, Lucius, and what's more, you know it."

Lucius scowled. "Truth in part. I do not believe I have stolen from her so much as I have stolen from you."

"And why would you wish to steal from me, my old friend, if indeed you have?"

"You don't deserve her, Severus."

Hiding his frown, the dark man tried to understand where the circular conversation was actually going. "There are few who would, I think."

"I do." He glared across at Severus, his icy grey eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. "I have worked tirelessly for our Lord, and where have you ever been? Hiding in your precious laboratory. I fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, I fought in the Final Battle, and where were you?"

"Precisely where our Lord told me to be."

"I deserve a reward for all my years of faithful service, and I have chosen Nocturne to be that reward."

"You didn't really think it was going to be that easy, did you?" Severus asked almost gently. His old friend was clearly drunk; it would make the next step that much easier. He let his wand drop from his sleeve, feeling the tip resting securely against his palm. _"Imperio,"_ he mouthed, the word dropping silently from his lips. Immediately he could see the glassy, unfocused look come over the crazed eyes. "Take me to Nocturne."

He could see Lucius fighting the Unforgivable, but the alcohol coursing through his system damned the effort. The fire extinguished at a stilted word, and the blond led the way into the fireplace, stepping over the grate. His hand stroked along the sooty stones, coming away clean, and the wall swung back to reveal a cramped tunnel.

They took no light with them, nor did they ignite the tips of their wands. Severus' wand was otherwise occupied, and he didn't trust Lucius to perform magic and still stay under the Imperius Curse. But Lucius didn't need a light to find his way; wherever it was they were heading, Lucius knew the way by touch and memory alone. The floor of the passageway was smooth and even, no chinks or litter to clutch at their feet and trip them up. They passed many doors on both sides, dust clinging to the small window holes covered in bars. It wasn't until the end of the deep passageway, after having gone through many twists and steep staircases, some of the stairways going up and others heading down in a nonsensical reversal, that they came to one that did show some use.

Lucius mechanically opened the door, pressing his thumb to the lock to allow it the drop of blood that guaranteed it was him. Inside, the room showed the signs of meticulous cleaning, of preparation. A single thick chain hung from the ceiling in the center, polished to a sterling gleam.

Nocturne hung there.

Her wrists were cuffed to it, and already the tender skin showed signs of the abuse, red rings peeking out from under the metal. She was entirely nude, blood running in rivulets down her back, buttocks, and legs from the lashes on her back. The black mark that he knew to be on the small of her back was hidden beneath her glamour. The whip wounds gaped, scarlet slashes against her alabaster skin. Purpling bruises bloomed all over her, and a split lip was barely visible through the thick curtain of her hair. Her eyes were closed, but he could see the precise moment when she realized she was no longer alone. She didn't open her eyes, didn't lift her head or acknowledge them at all, but he could see the tension ignite within the smooth lines of her body.

He forced himself to remain outwardly calm, when all he wanted to do was tear the blond man apart. How could Lucius mistreat such a delicate beauty? Even in such a time of darkness, surely beauty could maintain some form of immunity. But, he knew that wasn't the case, wasn't ever the case; beauty was the first casualty of death and despair, and Nocturne was far from delicate. Gods all knew, Nocturne was far from delicate.

"Unchain her," he ordered softly, her voice stiff and venomous.

Lucius woodenly obeyed, but Severus could still the see the fight in him, see the resistance in the lean line of muscle as he unlocked the chains and let the prostitute drop roughly to the floor. Seething, Severus nonetheless stayed silent, kneeling down next to her. He didn't speak, simply stroked her cheek with the burning question in his eyes. She looked up at him and nodded slowly.

Stifling a sigh of relief, he wrapped his cloak around her and lifted her towards one of the walls, leaning her against it. She slid down without his supporting arm, but at least the cloak was between her and the cold stone.

With the Imperius Curse still making Lucius compliant, though not docile, Severus locked him into the cuffs Nocturne had only recently vacated. "You understand of course, old friend, that I cannot let you go without punishment."

He lifted the curse, finally letting Lucius snarl at him. With his hands bound and his wand still upstairs in the study, his snarling was next to useless, but perhaps it would make him feel better. With careful precision, he used his wand to cut away the blond man's coat and shirt.

"All this over a whore, Severus? What has gotten into you?"

"Nothing that was not already there," he answered, tossing aside the useless strips of fabric. His eye fell upon the whip hanging on a hook by the door, presumably the same whip Malfoy had used upon Nocturne. "And I think it only fitting to let this be the instrument of justice."

"Justice?" Lucius spluttered. "It is not to you to dispense any such thing!"

"Oh, never fear for my skin, I shall apologize most profusely to our lord. My affection for Lareine and my anger on her behalf led me to more revenge than was temperate or prudent, and because it falls so neatly in line with his wishes, I shall be forgiven with barely a curse to be had." He was enjoying this, enjoying baiting the usually urbane and unruffled aristocrat. He drew his shoulder back, rolling it with the broader gesture that brought the whip shrieking down against the pale skin.

Lucius screamed.

And Nocturne's lips twitched in that serene, beguiling smile.

Blood sprayed onto the walls with every recoil of the whip, occasionally joined by white-blond locks of hair severed by the braided leather. Lucius was writhing, screaming until his silky voice cracked and grew hoarse, then finally fell silent. Still his mouth opened and grimaced in the motions, as if pretending to scream could still release the mounting pain. While Malfoy usually had much more control over his pain responses, the alcohol left him entirely susceptible to each bloody kiss.

When the Potions Master's arm grew weary, he tossed the whip aside and drew his wand, the old curses flowing effortlessly from his thin lips. They felt good, he realized, some portion of his mind shuddering back from that satisfaction. It felt good to see Lucius seizing in the chains that held him, to see the fair figure jerking spasmodically with every fresh pulse of the Cruciatus scalding his veins.

A soft sound drew his attention away from Lucius, back behind him. Nocturne had pulled herself to her feet, swaying slightly with the effort. She inclined her head towards the blood man, brining Severus' notice to the flecks of blood spilling down the pale chin. Internal injury, then, and time to stop. Severus nodded and left Lucius sagging in the chains.

Without saying a word, he lifted Nocturne into his arms, cradling her against his chest. He heard the sharp intake of her breath at the arm against her back, but she made no sign of protest. By the time he reached the study, she was unconscious, limp and boneless in his arms. He set her down briefly in Lucius' chair, breathing in the lavender and heather that still clung to her under the layers of scents forced upon her by the manner. With his nose and mind filled with it, a silver light burst from the end of his wand.

He stared at it, all the blood draining from his face. It was not the silver doe, it should have been a silver doe. That had been Lily's, once upon a time, the symbol of her love for James. Her doe to his stag. Yet, for love of her, Severus' Patronus had only ever been the slender, beautiful creature, more elegant and lovely than he could have prayed to be. But now it had changed. He knew what caused a Patronus to change form, had even teased Tonks about it in another lifetime, but how had it happened to him? The phantasmagorical creature, this construct of light and hope and happy memories, sat patiently waiting for him to pull his thoughts together into a message.

He closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength, and debated about sending the message to Lareine rather than Thanatos. At least Lareine wouldn't understand what the creature's form signified. But, Thanatos had earned the right to know before anyone else. Thanatos had done the nearly impossible and earned the Potions Master's respect. With a sigh, he instilled the message in the Patronus and sent it off the bodyguard.

_Nocturne is safe now. I will bring her back once I have tended her wounds. Rest now, and heal yourself as well._

When the last brilliant shards of light had faded, Severus considered the unconscious form of Nocturne. How had she managed it? He had little doubt that it had all been quite by chance, an accident they hadn't foreseen, hadn't planned for. But how?

Shaking his head, he lifted the woman again and left Malfoy Manor for what would prove to be the last time.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snape sent his house-elves into a flurry of activity the moment he Apparated into the front hall of his house, sending them scurrying for potions and quill and ink and parchment. The writing materials arrived first and he scratched out a hurried note to the Dark Lord, the servile formality flowing easily from the quill. He explained the situation, apologizing profusely for the extravagance of his response, and begged forgiveness for the severity of his actions, which were not, after all, his to undertake. He finished by adding that Madame Lareine had asked him to oversee Nocturne's recovery, though he would of course answer any summons given him by his Liege and Master. It was an artful piece of work, and he sent it off with the owl very confident that the reception would be exactly as he had planned.

And then the potions arrived, and it was time to tend to Nocturne.

He laid her out on his bed, on her stomach so that he could see her wounds. She'd seized upon Apparation, the magic sending echoing spasms of the Cruciatus through her body. Magic would be dangerous for a short time, until the tremors had worn completely away. Placing the bowl of cool, clear water on the nightstand, he took a cloth and carefully washed the long gashes, cleaning the blood off her pale skin. It reminded him, once again, of her glamour sickness, only this time, he knew he would not see the inky stain of his mark on her back. He massaged healing salves into the weals, feeling the skin warm in response, and finally, tipped a series of potions down her throat, stroking with gentle pressure to make her swallow. Potions to replenish the blood she'd lost, to hasten the healing, to decrease the pain she would feel upon awakening. All potions he'd made and used on himself through the years, when the infirmary at Hogwarts was too likely to be full of students. In other words, whenever there was a Quidditch game or a Slytherin/Gryffindor confrontation in the halls.

When he had done as much as he could do, he cast a Warming Charm and covered her lightly with a sheet. The spike of adrenaline was fading, leaving him exhausted. With only a small argument with himself, he pulled off his shoes and outer robes, stretching out on the bed beside Nocturne. He fell asleep after a few breaths, the fingers of one hand lightly tangled in her raven's wing curls.

When he awoke, full night had fallen, the room barely illuminated by the moonlight seeping under the curtains. He silently cast the charm to light the candles at the bedside.

Nocturne was awake, and watching him.

He tried to read, to define, the expression in her violet eyes, but failed. They were completely shuttered, and while he knew she was studying him for something, he wasn't sure what conclusions she was reaching. She was propped on one elbow, her other hand ghosting across his face, tracing the features that she already knew so well. He closed his eyes against the tender exploration, against the intimacy it engendered and seemed to promise.

"I'm sorry," he told her hoarsely, not even sure what he was apologizing for. That Lucius' insane need to compete had put her in danger? That he hadn't come fast enough? That he'd fallen in love with her? But perhaps the apology was strong enough on its own, didn't need the explanation.

Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his forehead, his cheeks, his damnable nose. He opened his eyes to see her hovering over him, those wide, elfin eyes crinkled at the corners with that same emotion he couldn't name. She kissed him, palm flattening against the side of his face, and Severus Snape knew what it was to come home.

He returned the kiss, something still new and unreal, but made no other move towards her. She was injured, he had to remember she was in-

But when she shifted to lie against him, her hands threading through his slightly greasy hair, he knew he would let her do whatever she wanted with him. Her lips moved against his, teasing, coaxing, and he opened his mouth beneath the gently persistent onslaught. They'd played it too close to the line from the very beginning, dancing across it only to leap nimbly back to the other side. But now the line was nowhere to be found, somewhere so far behind them that only the bittersweet memory remained. Separated from the frenzied want, from the desperate reminder of being alive, they learned tenderness and a deeper passion. When his hands wrung from her a cry, a sound so sweet his chest clenched, he knew he was lost. And when she lay underneath him, milking his body with her own release, he knew he didn't want to be found again.

"Hermione!"

Not even the feeling of his own wand digging into the soft skin of his throat could keep his eyes from rolling back into his head with the most powerful orgasm of his life.


	15. Helen's Daughter

**Disclaimer: As usual, not mine. Not that it's surprising in any way. So please don't sue me.**

_A/N: See, I'm trying to be good! It would be a fantastic reward if ya'll would review. cheesy grin_

_A/N2: Thank you for the nomination in the Quill to Parchment awards! Nocturne has been nominated for best Darkfic, so check out the site and place your votes! _http(colonslashslash)awards(dot)quilltoparchment(dot)com(slash)nominee(dot)html,

** Chapter Fifteen: Helen's Daughter**

In the aftermath of his climax, Severus Snape found it very difficult to care that he was in imminent danger of dying. He was much more concerned with reminding his lungs that they needed to breathe, with telling his heart to beat, and perhaps most importantly, ordering his bits not to fall off. Only when he was fairly sure that he wasn't going to collapse did he pay any attention to the wand tip digging into the tender skin of his throat.

He met the beautiful lavender eyes, now narrowed, and couldn't for the life of him prevent the smirk that tugged at his lips. "Miss Granger," he said dryly, inclining his head. The formality was absurdly out of place, especially seeing as he was still lodged within her, but he was perversely delighted to see her return the bare nod.

"Professor Snape."

Her voice was different, he realized. He'd vaguely wondered what she would sound like, older now, more jaded. Most likely her same voice, just deeper, more assured. He hadn't expected anything like the soft, rough whisper that greeted him with the movement of her lips.

"Do you mind putting my wand down, please?"

The slight furrow between her eyes told him that she _did_ mind, very much, but the wand slowly left his throat and made its way back to its proper place under the pillows. In a fair race, with all things being equal, he wasn't entirely sure who would get to it first; certainly her reflexes were superb, and his were decidedly rusty, despite the renewed exercise.

They separated with far less awkwardness than he would have supposed, and neither moved to perform any cleaning charms. Instead, as she sat up, she held the sheet demurely against her chest, arranging herself carefully against the headboard and waiting for him to make himself comfortable.

The silence grew heavy, too heavy, but he wasn't entirely sure how to break with it without being entirely graceless. Tactless, he enjoyed being upon occasion, but graceless? That would have been like decking himself in red and gold and dancing the hula. It wasn't going to happen if he had any power to prevent it.

"So whose side are you on?" she asked suddenly, and he was again struck by the husky caress of her voice.

"You want, I think, for me to say my own."

"That's expected, and hardly surprising."

"I am against the Dark Lord."

"So are a lot of people who don't do anything about it."

Severus appreciated a clever word game more than most, and certainly enjoyed entering into a battle of wits with worthy opponents, but now was not the time. Taking a deep breath, he looked directly into the lavender eyes, so very different from the warm cinnamon gaze he remembered, and spoke. "Ask of me any oath you wish," he said quietly, sonorous voice for once sincere and unadorned. "Ask me to bind myself by blood and by magic, by word and by deed, and I will. You have resurrected a dangerous game, but I have chosen to join you, and so long as there is breath in my body, I will see it done."

She studied him for a long moment, until he could feel the hair on the nape of his neck prickling with fear, and finally gave a brief, single nod. "That'll do."Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth, and it was so suddenly a gesture she should have grown out of, so unexpectedly a reminder of who she had been and was supposed to be, that he couldn't help but close his eyes against the extremely inappropriate laugh welling up in his chest. "We had thought, perhaps, you knew, but…"

"But?" he prompted when he had slightly better control of himself.

"But you did know, and still you…we…"

"Very articulate, Miss Granger," he drawled, and he was perversely pleased to see her scowl.

She swatted a stray hair out of her face, another familiar motion even if the hair was sleek and raven's wing black, rather than bushy and brown. "You knew it was me, yet still you fucked me."

"You knew it was me the entire time, and you still fucked me."

"Practicality," she offered.

"Ruthlessness," he corrected with a hidden smirk. "You deliberately set out to seduce me."

"True enough. And yet we still."

"And yet we still," he agreed quietly, knowing what she was after but unwilling to approach that hazy and somewhat frightening line. Between him and that painful confession lay the all-too-distinct form of that glowing Patronus. "People change."

"Yes, they do."

By unspoken consensus, they left the bed and cleaned up at separate ends of the house. One of the house-elves, a quiet little creature named Oleander, stayed by Hermione as she bathed. If she had a seizure such as the ones the Cruciatus frequently caused, Oleander would run for Severus. Provided, of course, that Hermione allowed her to do so. He had the feeling that her stubborn streak- already sizeable as a student- had only grown wider and deeper when it attached to her ruthless tendencies.

Her unscrupulous seduction and his "dates" with Lareine had at least affected one benefit a bit closer to home; he was taking more care with his appearance now than he ever had. He didn't consider himself vain by any stretch of the imagination, but it had been laziness as much as expediency that had upheld the greasy git image for 

quite so long. He braided his hair and trimmed his goatee, scraping away the stubble from the rest of his jaw. He considered sending a house elf for a set of clean robes, but chose to go instead with the spare set of clothes he kept in his lab. Black trousers and a plain white dress shirt would probably strike a better chord for what would follow. They had skirted around the truth for so long, and successfully at that, but now that it was out in the open, the rest had to follow. It was time for the conversation, for all the truths behind the half-truths, for the lies behind the guesses and gambles.

It was unlikely to be a pleasant conversation, but he was prepared for that.

With the vague thought that Hermione would want to take her time, he oversaw the elves in scrounging a breakfast together. It was a good thing he'd told them to take enough initiative to keep the larder well stocked; if left to his orders, they'd all starve. When he followed Asphodel out to the rose garden, he was mildly surprised to see Hermione reclining in a white metal chaise with a blanket wrapped around her. Oleander hovered discreetly behind the chair, there if she was needed, but not obtrusive.

"That was fast," was all he said.

"No customers to primp for."

He winced, but felt he'd probably deserved it. He'd been one of those customers.

They didn't speak again until they'd served themselves from the light repast and settled back into their chairs. They were near enough that a murmur could breach the distance, but silence continued for a time.

"Is it safe?" she asked finally.

"The nearest neighbors are the pack of anti-social Muggles ten kilometers away," he answered, biting the strawberry from its stem. "The house and lawns are decked out in charms, spells, and enchantments, and there are the roses."

"The roses," she echoed, arching an eyebrow at the beautiful flowers that decked out the garden and the perimeter.

"They bite."

"How shocking," she muttered, just loud enough to make him smirk into his scone.

"Your turn."

"Ask."

"How?"

"Barty Crouch."

He blinked but remained silent.

"When the Crouches worked on getting Barty Jr out of Azkaban, they Polyjuiced him and Mrs Crouch. It's true that the Dementors wouldn't notice any changes in appearance, but the Dementors aren't the ones to bury the dead; the human wardens are." If either of them noticed her slipping into her 'lecture' tone, they let it pass without comment. "If Mrs Crouch's body had reverted back to form, the wardens would have raised a cry. As no such fuss arose, her body must have kept the Polyjuiced guise even after she died, without needing to be renewed topically."

"And this translates to present circumstances…"

"Just who do you think was hanging on that gate?"

And that piece of the puzzle finally clicked into place, and the students' determination ratcheted up several more notches into scary. "So who was it?"

"An apprentice Auror," she replied coolly. "I didn't recognize him. He was dying when the battle turned against us; it was easy to force the Polyjuice down his throat. And then, voila, there was the body of Hermione Granger. The perfect trophy."

"And so you're a shadow, rather than a ghost. Who else is real?"

She shook her head. "You see Tom too frequently."

He pushed the melon slices around in his plate with one long, slender finger. "Miss Weasley does that as well."

"It's just a name."

"It's his name."

"It's just a name," she repeated softly. Caught in her gaze, he reluctantly nodded. And he couldn't fault her for not wanting to tell him; he _was_ around the Dark Lord too frequently. Only a fool trusted that strongly in Occlumency; it could only be done so much before it became obvious, and only someone with something to hide learned how to hide things. Circular, illogical perhaps, but true.

"So tell me."

She took a shallow breath, then another, rose-scented air filling her lungs and teasing out memories of her mother kneeling in the dirt, muddy streaks across her face and joy in her brown eyes to match. Memories of a Yule Ball, of first kisses and first dances and first romances, and of first refusals. Memories of roses lying against the snow in an old, forgotten, neglected cemetery, put there in remembrance of those who would never see them, never notice they'd been remembered. Each breath became gradually deeper, and he wondered if she was reminding herself to breathe freely or if she was re-teaching herself how to do so. Either prospect was unsettling and familiar in a way that still brought echoes of too many years of playing a game doomed to fail.

"Where shall I begin?" she asked finally. Her voice was calm, cool; he had little doubt he would ever hear it as anything else. But he could hear the tension stretching tight the words, and it wouldn't take much to send the words snapping apart in a painful recoil. He stayed silent, but held up his left hand, with the ring of his mother's family glinting in the morning sunlight. Those shards of life chased each other through the blocky emerald, gleaming briefly against the chiseled sigil before refracting out of the facets to hover against the truer greens of the rose petals. "Ah."

Oleander's ears wilted against her head and she curled into a ball under the chair, trembling in the wave of detachment in that single word. Severus merely sipped his tea, terribly patient.

"We should never have gone to Diagon Alley that day," she told him casually. "We didn't need the Order calling us eight kinds of stupid for us to realize that. We knew it before we left. But we did have reasons for needing to go." She acknowledged the sardonic lift of his eyebrow with a bare nod but left it at that. "Neville and I, most significantly; we needed the distraction of the others so that we could get what we needed from Knockturn Alley. Neville was carrying it when we were attacked," she added irrelevantly.

"And you were captured."

"And I was captured, along with Lavender and Parvati."

"You were a virgin."

"Reputations aren't always true."

He shook his head to clear away the déjà vu. "And Patil."

"Lavender and Ron were busy sixth year."

"Did you hate me more then?" he couldn't help asking. Her answer surprised him.

"You did what you had to do."

"I marked you."

"As yours; you could have just put the Dark Mark on me, but you didn't. It was a protection you didn't have to give. I wasn't grateful, but I wasn't ignorant of it."

"You never were the ingrate."

"The boys had it covered long before they took pity on me."

"And back at the school?"

"Padma fell apart, so we kept her hidden. Seeing one of its members go insane would have been devastating to the Junior Order. The full Order, too." He wasn't sure what purpose her side comments had, but he didn't interrupt as he would have before, and simply sat back to let her tell it in her own way. She was subtle, that was certain, but he knew she was delicately censoring her story. He had usually censored his reports to Dumbledore, when it came down to it.

"No one argued when Parvati started speaking in India."

"No one knew which twin was dead, or even really that either of them were. Lavender and I were injured, maybe the other one was only injured."

"So that's when it began."

"That's when it began." She reached out and gently snapped one of the roses from its stem, rolling the satin flower across her cheek. "Hogwarts was always going to fall. Something like that is too big to defend with so few people, most of them either half-trained or so out of practice they were like Lockhart. Some of us realized that."

"Some?"

"Remus, Bill and Charlie Weasley, me. Perhaps a handful of others recognized it, vaguely, but didn't want to admit it even to themselves, much less to a meeting room of people who kept trying to pretend that hope would still carry the day. We started setting up the Shrieking Shack, making the Polyjuice, making plans. When Hogwarts fell, we lost. The Final Battle was just a formality at that point."

When he remembered the death toll on both sides, Severus couldn't call it a formality, but then, he'd been out of the story for several years.

"We hid for as long as it was safe, training ourselves to our new tasks, and then we scattered."

"And you became Nocturne."

"I practiced on strangers, at first. When all I needed was refinement, I practiced on the other members. Tonks was useful in that aspect; she could become anything I might need to accommodate."

Part of his mind wanted to linger on that image before shuddering away, but he was glad that part lost the battle against his self-control.

She shrugged thin shoulders and he noticed for the first time that she was wearing one of his shirts. "The rest you know, as much as you need to. Thanatos and I came to the Lair and settled in for a long wait. There were other things that needed to be done before we could act."

"Pansy Parkinson."

"Rethought things after what happened to the younger Malfoy. We never intended to recruit her, but we didn't turn her away when the opportunity presented itself."

"Miss Sigurdson?"

"Well placed, isn't she?"

And he knew he wasn't learning any more on that score. He didn't even ask about Thanatos. "You've always been silent as Nocturne," he said instead.

She laughed bitterly, and that was when he heard the difference most. Her laugh as a student had been annoyingly infectious, a joyous fall that rang through space. This Hermione's laugh was a spill of pebbles across a surface, rough and dark and heavy. "Voices are harder to glamour, and the spells wear off oddly. The glamours improved over the years, and we could hold them for much longer than we should have been able to, but the voices are harder to disguise. Maybe my voice wouldn't have been as recognizable in given circumstances, but it was too big a risk." Her hand curled tightly around the rose, crushing it into a fragrant heap in her palm. "Besides," she added more quietly, "it didn't really seem like my voice anymore. This isn't just from disuse."

"Where did Nocturne's appearance come from?"

"From a magazine," she said carelessly. "It was a painting in a fantasy circular. I liked it."

"And what is your appearance now?"

"In essentials, I am the same as I ever was."

"As am I."

Her sharp gaze lingered over the narrow goatee neatly framing his thin lips, at the long and only slightly greasy hair neatly contained in a braid, and acknowledged the point. He didn't even see her lips move when she dropped the glamour, and he wondered if Potter had ever learned silence as well as his friend. It was more that fact that she did it wandlessly that impressed him.

And then Hermione Granger was sitting beside him, and he forgot to breathe.

Her eyes were the same color he remembered, a warm cinnamon brown that invited the gentler glows of candles and firelight, that lit up whenever she felt a strong emotion. Given that she was in Gryffindor, that had been 

fairly frequently. There was no glow to them now, only the dark, cynical detachment and intelligence that he saw in Nocturne's violet regard. Her features were delicate, thin and fine-boned, but arranged in a less uncommon beauty. It was hard to remember her age, certainly she'd never acted it anyway, but he could see liberal streaks of silver in the caramel curls. Her hair still broke away close to her scalp, giving a wispy halo that implied softness, but it was much tamer than he recalled it being. Then again, he'd never seen a prostitute at the Lair look less than sleek and immaculate, so perhaps she'd learned it there.

And through the open collar of his shirt, he could see the scars gouging up the slender column of her throat, twisting pockets of discolored skin straining to stretch across the ancient injuries. His hand twitched against his empty plate, wanting to reach out and smooth away the disfigurement, but he left it where it was. She didn't want pity, not if the defiant gleam in her eyes was anything to go by. But it did explain her voice.

And yet, she wasn't really Hermione Jean Granger. This new person, this creature of icy fire and determination, somehow hovered between Hermione and Nocturne. It was then that he realized they'd both avoided using the other's name in their conversation since that first ironic greeting.

"So what now?" she asked, and she didn't think she was referring to her own plans.

"Come with me."

Her eyes travelled around his lab, taking in the small details with a professional eye. She lingered on the cages of nifflers, more so on the piles of Galleons forming their nests, but made no comment. She obediently sat where he indicated, perching on a stool kitty-corner from a cauldron whose contents burbled sedately.

"That," he told her, pointing to the cauldron, "is a reptilian sedative. When slathered onto Nagini's supper, it would cause her to become drowsy as she digested. She would be in a stupor for several hours."

A slow smile curved the corners of her lips, "Is that so?"

"Indeed. Now we just need to figure out how to see it all done without being caught."

"Or having to claim it."

His eyebrows, both of them, threatened to disappear into his hairline. "You don't want the credit for this?"

Her bitter laugh washed across him again. "Do you really think we're doing the world a favor?" She shook her head and brushed an almost entirely silver curl back behind her ear. "Say what you will of Tom, and we frequently do, but he's getting things stabilized again. Diagon Alley is safe again, at least as safe as it ever was. Hogwarts is re-opening next year. All of the darkest deeds are going back to the confines of secrets. He holds meetings in a board room. With muffins."

In spite of himself, Severus smirked. Banana nut.

"We are not just toppling Tom here; we are upsetting the entire world stage."

A frisson of fear ran down his spine and he stared at her, old thoughts tumbling back to the forefront of his mind.

"Britain will again be without a leader, and the anarchy will probably equal that of the last take-over. More so, really, because at least then there was Tom sitting in the wings. One of our people is, very shortly, president of the Wizarding United States of America; unless Michael decides to fake his death and let his vice president take over, he's in that role no matter what happens here. France is collapsing; Italy and Spain have entirely closed themselves off. The caste system in India is getting turned on its head and China doesn't know which way is up right now. Russian wizards are learning that they have a significant place in the power structure if they're willing to wrest it away from other people."

She watched him almost pityingly. "We're not doing what's good or what's right; we're children playing at revenge. Besides, we're really not fit to be the leaders of the wizarding, even if we do succeed. Given everything we've done to get to this point, it's not like we'll be able to go all light and fluffy and happy again."

"Light and fluffy and happy isn't nearly as interesting," he said before he could think better of it. As soon as he heard the words come out of his mouth, he continued so that she couldn't. "So what does happen after, if there is an after?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She didn't much seem to mind. "After is just another word for hope. You know better than most that hope is a cancer. Sometimes you survive it, sometimes you don't. Some people in our group need to hope, they need to feel like they're fighting for something better, and we let them. The rest of us know better. We don't plan for an after because if we're alive for an after, we're not going to be around to see it." A small, almost wistful smile tugged at her mouth, softening it for a heartbeat. "We disappeared once; it'll be easy to disappear again."

"If it comes to that."

"If it comes to that."

"Do you think it will?"

"Are you asking me to hope?"

"No; predict."

She snorted inelegantly. "Even worse."

Thanatos had just placed the final pawn back on the repaired chessboard when the door hinges creaked. He was down in a crouch, wand in hand, before the door finished opening, but there was Nocturne, watching him with a cynical smile dancing about her lavender eyes. His entire body ached beneath the bandages but he swept her up in his arms. She was all right. They weren't demonstrative, none of their set were anymore, but while every other positive emotion had been sucked into the void of revenge, some connections still held true. He could feel the Cruciatus shiver beneath her skin, but she was alive and functioning, and for the moment, that was what mattered.

Movement in the doorway caught his attention and he and Snape traded a long, level look. Neither attempted to use Legilimency, but it wasn't truly needed. Finally, Thanatos nodded and glanced away.

Sliding out of her bodyguard's embrace, Nocturne walked over to the chessboard and studied it. The black bishop that had stood for Lucius Malfoy was moved farther away from the white queen. From the small drawer in the table, she drew out a third white bishop, swapping it out for the beribboned pawn.

Severus smiled slightly. With another nod to Thanatos, he left and closed the door behind him. He needed to make sure things with the Dark Lord were as smooth as he thought they were

Thanatos turned to his ward, raising his eyebrows, and she gave him a serene shrug. He scowled, but reached out and pulled her close again. He would find out soon enough.


	16. Morrigan's Call

**Disclaimer: As per standard, I do not actually own Harry Potter, unless you count the books sitting on my shelves. This is a non-profit activity.**

_A/N: So you people are really, REALLY good at the whole guilt-trip thing, so here we go. After this, there are five chapters, which I will be doing my absolute best to finish in the next week weeks. These past two years (holy crap, has it really been that long?!) have been full of original projects in a very, very different voice, but while that first manuscript is being considered by a couple of agents, I'm returning to this VERY different style to finish up loose ends. Please review! Hell, that's really how I've been guilted into finishing it in the first place, and reviews truly will crack the whip on me. I know it's been a long hiatus, but I hope you enjoy._

**Chapter Sixteen: Morrigan's Call**

_Dear Red,_

_ Yet one more way in which these Americans are so damned inefficient. This lame duck period is going to hobble us. The outgoing bastard is doing everything in his questionable power to make the transfer of leadership as difficult, complicated, and hellish as possible. I've been going back through the past several months to see if there's some way I caused this but other than having the temerity to run and win, I can't think of anything specific. I suppose incumbents don't care for being defeated when they expect to have several more years of ultimate power._

_ Hardly ultimate, however; the presidents here hold a great deal less unilateral authority than even the ministers_

_ At any rate, he's been using this lame duck period to try to ram legislation through the bodies, anything to make it more difficult for me to do anything once I come in. So far he's been mostly unsuccessful; our supporters in the voting bodies have been able to shoot most of them down when it came to the actual vote, but they did let slip through a few that seemed innocuous. What it mostly comes down to is creating a hell of a lot of red tape to wade through in order to get everything done. New committees are being formed, new checks and balances that cripple more than balance. _

_ I guess what I'm trying not to have to admit is that I'm useless here. The timetable has gotten ahead of me as events have escalated, and it'll be months before I actually have things cleared up enough to push anything through. I hate being useless, especially after all the work I've put in over here._

_ And all the suits. I loathe the suits._

_ So tell me, Red, what can I do other than keep things at the status quo? I know I can do that, especially if my shutterbug can find new ways to discretely discredit the sitting president and his strongest supporters in the bodies. I just can't help but think everything will be done before I can accomplish something. Once I get in, we'll reassess._

_ Sorry for burdening you with dangerous letters that don't much serve a point other than to let me whine. I just hate sitting here, watching everything else unfold._

_ But I hope- I know we're not supposed to use that word, have that feeling, but I truly do, I HOPE- that my first major official act will be to authorize aid to the newly rebuilding magical Britain. There's so much more to being president than keeping Moldy Voldy from taking over the world, and for the first time I'm looking at that and wondering if I can really do it._

_ And then I look at it again, and I think I can._

_ But it's an after, and we're not supposed to focus on the afters. When does that start? When does the after start?_

_ Chief_

Ginny carefully folded Michael's letter and held it out over the flames, watching the heavy parchment curl and crumble at the edges as the scorch fled further over the words. She dropped it at the last possible second, the heat turning her fingertips pink, then stirred the poker through the flames to thoroughly scatter the ashes.

Her lover poked his head into the Floo room, messy black hair falling forward into his emerald eyes. "Are you ready, love?"

Taking a deep breath, she stood and shouldered the pack at her feet. "I'm ready."

He held his hand out, squeezing her fingers when she laced them through his. "Everything changes."

"Everything already changed," she said quietly. "These are the ripples, not the changes."

The next afternoon, a familiar group gathered in Nocturne's room on the top floor of the Lair, protection spells layered over the entire room, not just the entryways. To anyone trying to listen in, either magically or physically, they would hear only the cozy domesticity that had lately been found in the evenings within the room. They would hear music spilling from the piano in the corner of the room, the soft clink of chess pieces moving on the board, the rustle of the papers, and the low sounds- and occasional laughter or argument- of Lareine and Severus discussing newly published Potions articles.

It was an enormously complicated spell, one that had required several evenings of 'practice', such as it was. To create the aural illusion, Nocturne had needed the scene to be familiar, have the raw material to weave the spell.

Both Nocturne- he couldn't truly call her Hermione, even in his thoughts, until all this was over, if then- and Thanatos were healing well. Both had also been relieved of all duties within the brothel during their recovery. That it allowed them to focus entirely on the plans with plans falling into place all around the globe was a fact known to very few.

But whatever the illusion, the four were currently clustered around the small, round white table, studying a large parchment spread out over the surface. Wands acted as paperweights, staying in easy reach as well as guaranteeing the parchment would reroll if anyone tried to enter.

As much as Severus had loathed the Marauders most of his life, and loathed some of them still if he was completely honest, he had to admit they'd had a peculiar kind of brilliance when it came to mischief. Nocturne didn't come right out and say that this parchment was based on their infamous map, but then, she said very little. So long used to her silence, none of the others found this odd. But the one sentence she had uttered in the course of the evening, her voice hoarse and low, had told him everything he needed to know about it: "I solemnly swear I am up to no good".

Thanatos' lips had twitched in what was almost a smile.

From that point on, the parchment had acted like a television screen, letting them view the events on the surface. When he'd first seen it, he couldn't imagine how such a thing could be safe to leave around- didn't they understand how much damage the Dark Lord could do to their plans if he got hold of a way to watch them? But once again, the former students had been three or more steps ahead. The parchment had remained muddy until Thanatos pulled a miniscule vial of blood from a chest in his connected chamber, cracking the seal with his wand and pouring the contents onto the page.

From there, the blood spread out far past the actual amount, and showed Gabrielle Delacour and what seemed to be Draco Malfoy, marching at the head of a vast parade of grim faced wizards and witches.

They looked good together, a fact that certainly wasn't lost on the French hordes following them. Gabrielle, with her quarter-Veela heritage, ice blue eyes, and silver-blonde fall of hair, was everything cold and beautiful. Draco, with his patrician good looks, went well with her coloring, his platinum blond hair neatly tied back in a tail at his neck, the brittle white streak from extended Cruciatus barely visible against the pale color. Grey eyes roved over their surroundings as they marched, taking in the small details.

Only it wasn't actually Draco Malfoy standing there, rallying the French commons to revolution, but rather Nymphadora Tonks, metamorphmagus and former Auror. For some time, she'd been playing the strong-boned, clumsy Neville Longbottom in Spain, until a seeming assassination gave them another martyr to the cause. Draco then appeared in France, a perfect match for their beloved leader. The Auror training was clear in the vigilant scan of everything around them, but Tonks had learned Draco's mannerisms very carefully over the past several weeks. Other than a few slips, unnoticed by all but those looking for them, she'd succeeded admirably.

He hadn't heard of a single occasion that she'd tripped over her own feet and faceplanted, which for Tonks was quite a feat in and of itself.

From the time she started working against the Dark Lord in France, Gabrielle had given them a martyr in the form of her beautiful sister, Fleur Delacour-Weasley, who married for love despite the war and fell, fighting to the end, with her husband. Oh, the French had flocked to the phoenix banner, swept away by the romance of it all. Despite the death toll rising ever higher at each of her riots, they wouldn't hear a word said against her, and indeed, despite her fiery passion, it was always clearly proven that the Dark Lord's supporters had been the ones to break the peace, to cast the first blows or hexes. Whether they actually were or not was entirely beside the point.

But now, just in case their enthusiasm for the years-dead Fleur had waned, Draco Malfoy had come to stir their hearts and their sense of tragedy, as handsome a leading man as any could hope for. Tears in his eyes, jaw tight with contained emotion, he stood before the crowds and gave them a new martyr: Narcissa Malfoy.

It had been so easy to paint events the way they wanted them, especially as there was only a single lie within the story. Narcissa Malfoy, socialite queen, had centered her entire world on her only child. When his true loyalties were uncovered, even then she couldn't hate him, couldn't despise the child she'd brought into the world. But then came the Final Battle, where Lucius Malfoy tore the field apart seeking to kill his traitorous son, and the bloody aftermath where so many were dead and missing. When her son's name was listed among the missing, Narcissa broke.

And she remained that way, wispy and tear-struck, often unable to even finish a sentence, as she mourned her only child and grieved for the life he would never have. Her husband's fury, and the Dark Lord's rage, meant she could never speak of it and so she suffered in anguish and silence.

And there the divergence was born, but so small, and so close to the truth, that it was so easy to give it just the slight spin that painted an entirely new picture. In the absolute truth, Lucius had been sent to Russia on a task for the Dark Lord, and when a visiting friend asked how long he'd been gone, the shattered and unstable Narcissa had taken it to mean her husband was dead, and so taken poison. At the same time, Lucius was called back from Russia because he'd accomplished nothing, never a safe thing when one is in service to the Dark Lord.

So easy to modify the visiting friend's memories, to make it seem as though she were under the Imperius. So easy for Draco to stand on a platform and cry murder, that his father- Lucius Malfoy, right hand of the Dark Lord- had slain his wife in order to gain reprieve from the Dark Lord's punishment for his failure. So easy for the masses to swallow that story and make it their own.

It wasn't all aesthetic, of course. While people in large groups were sheep, there were still enough intelligent souls among them to question any political campaign made purely on beauty. But this wasn't exactly a political campaign, and while the beautiful leaders had certainly helped to gain attention, the litany of atrocities they stood against was equally compelling. The wizarding population of France had survived too many wars, both their own and the Muggle struggles into which they were almost always drawn, to welcome the despot across the Channel. Yet, being mostly disorganized, they'd lost the sudden battle to keep him from establishing a hold over their country, and so most had resigned themselves to horror and shielded their children from the worst of it.

But there were always fighters, was always a Resistance, and Gabrielle had taken that movement and forged it into a terrifying weapon, aiming it the name of the phoenix banner. They didn't call it the Order of the Phoenix, not even amongst themselves, but they still used the phoenix as their banner. It was less a sign of hope than it once had been, but rather a fact: these children, children no more, had fallen and reforged themselves in fire, spreading bloody wings against the tyrant.

"They're almost to Paris," Lareine observed, chin propped on one hand as she watched the parchment. "I didn't think they'd make such good time."

"The defense has been drawn entirely into the Palais du Lis," Severus replied absently, studying the map in his hand. "They abandoned the countryside and streets to make sure the revolutionaries don't get into the palace."

Noticing the thoughtful scowl pulling at his features, Nocturne lightly touched his wrist and raised an eyebrow in question.

He handed her the map of France, every riot and impromptu battle marked in ink. "There's been nothing in the entire region of Navarre," he pointed out. "Why not?"

"No need," answered Lareine, sipping from a delicate china cup of tea. She shrugged elegantly when he turned his attention back to her. "Navarre has been held by the same family for thousands of years, even before the Romans swept across Gaul. The Duchess is entirely sovereign within her borders. The Dark Lord was unable to work against her, not where the land itself answers to the ancient magics of her bloodline. We have no need to work there. She will not tolerate Death Eaters on her lands."

"Has she offered assistance?"

"She gave Gabrielle a list of safe houses, as well as a fairly deep purse. It's not overt assistance, but it's assistance."

Nodding, Severus took the map back from the silently amused Nocturne and she went back to the complex equations covering several rolls of parchment. Ink marked through most of the rest of France, leaving Paris a gaping hole that was soon to be corrected.

If all worked out, France would be the next to fall, but it certainly wasn't the first. Italy and Spain, urged on by Blaise Zabini and Tonks-as-Longbottom respectively, had barred their doors to Voldemort's supporters, refusing to do business with them or recognize rights of property.

Or rights of living, in some extreme cases. In Italy, except along the border where contact with France swept them up in the living force that was Gabrielle, the violence had been mostly contained. Until leaving for Ireland, Blaise had been witty and urbane, entertaining officials at the Dark Lord's expense and drily puncturing the propaganda of the Dark Lord as a rehabilitating force. He didn't rally them so much as sway them, leading them to the decision to counter the expansion.

Spain, too, had been a mostly bloodless revolution, despite the escalating nastiness as businesses closed their doors to the Death Eaters. But then came the second death of Neville Longbottom. The Spaniards had loved their shy, somewhat bumbling fugitive with his good natured smile and seemingly bottomless purse. He didn't speak politics to them, didn't rouse them to anything; all action that had been taken was done by their own instigation.

It had been Severus' idea, his first substantial contribution to the game he'd only just rejoined. Sacrifice the appearance of Longbottom, give Spain a martyr, and move Tonks to France as Draco. They wouldn't have done it if they hadn't thought it would work.

None of them realized it would work quite so well.

A lock of Neville's hair, a healthy dose of Polyjuice, and a low-ranking Death Eater that no one would miss, and a new Longbottom walked the streets of Madrid, his movements so clumsy as usual that no one even suspected the wooden steps of an Imperioed puppet. And then another Death Eater, another Imperius by another wand, and then there was a body in the street and a full-scale riot that ended with every Death Eater in Madrid dead, and every Death Eater in Spain running for the border. Spain had rivaled France after that in its bloody riots.

There were other maps spread out on the table as well, other areas in which the former students had pawns scattered. Some areas were stronger than others; Russia and America had both rallied to their figures, but China teetered, on the brink of falling to either side, and India had been written off as a lost cause, not so much for a lack of response from the people but because their face had fallen apart. Parvati Patil had died long ago in a rundown mansion in Little Hangleton, but when the students came out of hiding hers was the face worn by her sundered twin. Padma had slowly unraveled under the strain, becoming a loose cannon that could easily backfire on the phoenix banner.

So she'd become another martyr to the cause.

It still chilled Severus how coolly efficient and ruthless they'd become. They'd learned the value of sacrifice, learned the hardness that comes of needing to win. They said it was for revenge but he knew it was more than that, things far more complicated that compelled them to such a convoluted course of action. He didn't know what those motivations were but neither did he ask; for this single moment, it was enough that they were still fighting, and they'd learned to fight in a way Albus Dumbledore had never wanted them to.

These children had sundered their souls and turned themselves into weapons, doing what the Headmaster had tried to be too good to do, and they'd done it knowingly and deliberately. Nocturne- and his eyes flicked to her briefly- was eminent proof of that.

Hermione Granger had told her story, or at least as much of it as she had any desire to tell, and while he knew it was truth, he still had trouble reconciling the woman at his side to the bushy haired know-it-all he'd taught for six years. Oh, the ruthlessness had always been there, tempered in academic enthusiasm and other such things; he recognized the foundation of many of the traits. It was not so much what was there that shocked him, but what was lacking. The light in her eyes was gone, the joy, the humor, the ready expression that was so very Gryffindor in its extremes. The goody two-shoes prefect and everyone's bet for Head Girl had applied herself to her transformation with the same focused determination she presented any new topic, fucking strangers to perfect the prostitute's skills, and joining the most prestigious brothel in England, one that catered directly to the upper echelon of the Dark Lord's servants.

And she'd seduced him. He hadn't known it was her, not for quite some time, but she'd always known it was him, and she captivated him with her elfin beauty and her Mona Lisa smile so that he'd never even noticed her lifting thoughts and memories from his mind. He, the Master Occlumens, had never even noticed her intrusion, not until he'd joined their side of things.

The papers and maps stacked on the table told him some of the incredible story of these fighters but there was still much he didn't know. Some it was too dangerous to tell him; true, he'd been a spy longer than most of them had been alive, but he was so close to the Dark Lord, so regularly summoned to the wizard's pleasure, that there was no sense in trusting him with more than they absolutely had to.

A prime example of that sat between Nocturne and Lareine: Thanatos, Nocturne's bodyguard and companion, and an equally silent force. The man was tall and well-muscled but lean and graceful, platinum blond hair falling nearly to his waist and framing a strongly handsome face with compelling grey eyes. He was one of the few people Severus genuinely respected, a revelation that had come as a surprise to both of them, and their silent companionship on either side of the chessboard had become a comfortable fixture around the many plots.

And Severus had absolutely no idea who he was.

Oh, there were clues he'd gathered, but he'd learned that nothing was as it seemed with these children. For years, he'd been convinced that Potter, Weasley, and Granger were dead, their bodies hanging on the Ministry gates until decay rendered them unrecognizable. And yet Granger sat beside him in a well-woven glamour that gave her flawless alabaster skin, large violet eyes, and blue-black curls tumbling sleekly down her back, a glamour that hid the hideous scars on her body, that his the bold black lines of Severus' mark on the small of her back. So he couldn't trust the clues, couldn't trust the guesses he built off of appearance or habits.

"Ireland is rallying," Lareine said quietly, musing over the latest report from Blaise. "Half of Dublin is on fire, including the Ministry offices there."

"Somehow one of the Birdies retrieved Dean Thomas' body after the Dark Lord ordered it burned; being such a good friend to Seamus Finnegan, his death is useful in stirring them up."

The Birdies were another closely guarded secret, pawns clustered around the key players on the board. Their tasks were just as important, instrumental in all they'd achieved, but they assisted from the shadows, keeping out of sight and therefore staying untargeted. Every figurehead had several Birdies at their command, using them as efficiently as they used anyone who had something to contribute, willing or not.

Severus flinched and dropped the papers as sudden fire bloomed in his left arm, pain lancing straight to his skull. He clapped his hand over the Dark Mark but the pressure didn't ease the agony in the slightest. It had been years since he'd last been called in this manner; since his victory, the Dark Lord had preferred to use messengers and schedule meetings and conferences, all part of an attempt to civilize and actually run this country he'd taken. His breath hissed through gritted teeth, tears burning in his eyes and the pain continued, shattering his thoughts.

Slowly, too slowly, the pain lessened just enough to be bearable, to allow him to breathe and think. His companions watched him with varying degrees of concern, curiosity, and habitual indifference.

"Tom's slipping," Nocturne observed quietly, in the pebble-washed voice he couldn't get used to. He knew it came from the vicious scars tearing their way up her chest and throat, knew it came partly too from years of disuse, but he couldn't reconcile that with the enigmatically silent courtesan nor the ebullient school-girl.

He nodded tightly and stood. "I'll be back as I may," was all he said, and he walked quickly out of the room and down the flights of stairs to exit the house. He didn't sprint, even in pain he had too much dignity for that, but his black robes snapped about his ankles as he stalked down Diagon Alley- truly an expanded Knockturn Alley- towards the Ministry. This close it made no sense to Apparate, and he wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't splinch if he tried anyway.

He was panting by the time he made he reached the Dark Lord's antechamber, the pain searing in waves. Unless time had dulled his memory, the call had rarely hurt this badly, and while he had passed other Death Eaters on his way, none of them had seemed affected.

Was this it, then? Had he been clumsy, allowed himself to get discovered? Had he failed again?

But Ingrid Sigurdson, Voldemort's secretary and one of the many Birdies scattered across the globe, stood to greet him, and despite her patent concern at his condition she didn't look too worried. "Malfoy," she told him softly. "Go on in."

He stopped outside the door to the Dark Lord's office and straightened with an effort, despite the instinct to curl around his arm like a wounded animal might. The deep breaths were labored, staggering with the intense agony, but he managed some semblance of calm, and walked into the office.

Lucius Malfoy writhed on the expensive carpet, blond hair whipping about him, as their Master trained his wand on him. Bloody spittle flew from his slack lips, splashing against the two guest chairs and the fine mahogany desk, his body snapping and jerking as he ripped apart internally.

Severus bowed low immediately inside the door. His neck itched as he presented it to his Master but if he was in this kind of mood already, the risk had to be taken. Though the Dark Lord had mellowed in his quest for civilization, he was still the Dark Lord. The dark braid he'd taken to wearing fell over one shoulder, leaving him not even that false sense of protection.

"Severus," the reptilian man panted, and he lifted the curse off his second-in-command. "Severus Snape, my most loyal, my most faithful servant. You alone have not failed me."

"Master-"

"Crucio!" he bellowed, and Lucius jack-knifed as the curse bit deeply into him. "You have failed me, Lucius! Again and again you have failed me! My second-in-command, the one I trusted to see my will executed, yet we lose France because of you! Because your traitorous son cries against my name! Once you burned so brightly in my service but you have grown soft! You plan my parties and you damage whores, but when I finally give you a task suited to my second, you fail!"

Severus stayed in his bent position, studying the flailing man on the rug even as he avoided the pain-crazed eyes.

"I sent you to Russia to restore my work there, and you accomplished nothing! I gave you leniency upon your return, out of compassion for your wife's death despite her treason in clinging to that whoreson traitor who was your son, and you fail me again! You took that which did not belong to you, that which was beloved of a woman I have given to Severus as just reward! And despite the punishment meted out to you on both fronts, still you fail me again," he continued in a heart-stopping hiss. Severus tried to remember to breathe; the more reptilian the Dark Lord's speech, the more it meant he was forgetting himself, the more he was losing the thin veneer of polish he'd striven so hard to acquire. "I gave you a week to finally take care of your son, to fix the mistake you made those years ago, and you failed!"

Severus could actually hear the ribs breaking; the froth spilling from his old friend's mouth was increasingly bloody.

"M-m-master!" the man pleaded breathlessly, and the curse lifted.

The incarnadine eyes glared at him, the narrow chest heaving with emotion within the elegantly tailored black robes. "I have been too lenient," he hissed. "I have tried to create something greater, but I am betrayed at every turn by idiots who cannot follow orders, who cannot leave the chaos long enough to accomplish simple tasks. Such betrayal is unpardonable, my Lucius, especially in one whom I have always rewarded so well."

"S-severus!"

"As our Master wills, so will it be," the Potions Master replied quietly, still locked in his deep bow. Lucius must have been truly desperate to make such a plea for help, especially in front of the Dark Lord.

Voldemort savagely kicked the man on the floor. "Dog! Do not seek mercy from one who knows his duty! Rise, Severus, my most faithful."

Smoothing his face into an appropriate expression of awed gravity, Severus straightened, the pain in his arm only a stabbing echo now that he'd answered the summons. "My Lord."

"My dour Potions Master, you are now my second," the tyrant told him solemnly, spittle still flecking his thin lips and chin. "You, who have worked tirelessly on my behalf and yet claimed so little reward. You, who never fails me. You are the only one I can depend on in this nest of fools."

"You honor me greatly, Lord," he said with another deep bow. "I am not worthy, but I serve you with everything I am." The words came easily after so many years of repetition, his dark voice wringing sincerity out of the falsehoods.

There was a trembling knock at the door. "My Lord?" a voice called through the heavy wood. "My Lord, I am so sorry, but there is news of France."

The Dark Lord neatened his robes and, ignoring the whimpering man on the floor, crossed behind his desk and sat down in his heavy leather chair. "Severus, please, won't you take a seat?" he asked with surreal politeness. "Ingrid, please bring my second tea as you bring the news.

Only a moment later, the blond secretary entered the office, her face pale and hands shaking minutely as she strove to keep the saucers steady. She set one before the Dark Lord, the tea pale with milk, and handed the strong black tea to the Potions Master. She opened her mouth, then closed it again when nothing came out. Instead of trying again, she simply pulled a small remote off a side table and turned on the television set into the wall of the office.

The news was tuned to France, specifically to Paris, as a singing, chanting mass marched through the streets of the city. Their ranks swelled as they pushed deeper into the sprawling metropolis, others joining the banner of the phoenix. Draco and Gabrielle no longer stood in the very front; others crowded around them in a fierce phalanx of protection, determined that nothing would get through to their beloved leaders.

The horde stopped at the Palais du Lis, the head of the French Ministry, now almost entirely composed of Voldemort's supporters. The mass fell against the outer walls like a cresting wave, swelling all around the perimeter and cutting off escape from any of the side doors. Magic gleamed in the air above, Anti-Apparation charms falling into place.

"Bring them out!" Gabrielle cried, her voice a ringing silver trumpet augmented by spells to carry over distance. "Bring out the traitors who would feed their countrymen to the evil snake!"

Spells battered at the wards, some of them rebounding and cutting swathes through the revolutionaries, but for every witch or wizard that fell, a dozen more pressed into their place. Other than the wards, there was no sign of a defensive force; had they withdrawn even deeper into the palace? Or had they deserted?

High overhead, the verdant banner of the Dark Lord flapped in the wind, an emerald snake striking from a coil on a black shield. Those in the back of the crowd saw it first and cried out, the shouts racing forward and bringing everyone's eyes to the tower. As they watched, the color faded to an even snowy white, and a small figure appeared in the heights.

"Give us safe passage!" the man bellowed, voice straining even with the spell. "Let us safely through and we will surrender. The people have spoken!"

A dull roar followed his words.

Gabrielle and Draco shared a quick look, trying to decide if this was a trap or not. Finally, in a gesture so subtle Severus would have missed it if he hadn't been intently searching for it, Draco's fingers flicked towards his partner in the equivalent of a shrug.

And understanding how Tonks expected this to fall out, Gabrielle simply nodded slightly and shouldered the responsibility. "Open the doors!"

The wards shimmered and dropped, and the vast doors swung slowly outwards. The French Tribunal, thirteen wizards selected by the Dark Lord to execute his will in France, stood framed by the massive gate, their faces starkly pale. "We surrender!" called the man at the head of the V. "We surrender to the people's decision."

And the people's decision was to tear them apart. A following that size, that riled, wouldn't settle for less than blood, and all Death Eaters but the Tribunal had already fled for English shores. Severus watched with grim satisfaction, carefully hidden, as the French people reclaimed their government.

Draco allowed this to continue for a few minutes, then stepped forward into the horde. "NO!" he cried. "This must stop! Their surrender was accepted! This must stop, or we have no more honor than the soulless snake across the water!"

By that point, of course, it was too late, but in the eyes of the nations breathlessly watching the magical news, his reputation was cemented as someone who upheld honor and justice, someone who sought order from the chaos. It was but the work of the moment to turn the savage death of thirteen unarmed men into a just execution, though nothing could disguise the coldly burning triumph in Gabrielle Delacour's icy gaze.

The silver-haired young woman drew her wand and pointed it at the white banner flapping from the tower. The white snapped to a field of black, framing a scarlet and gold phoenix wreathed in flames. The horde cheered as the phoenix flew over all of France.

"My people, our lives are ours once again!" Gabrielle continued. "We make our decisions now! We have reclaimed our voices!"

And just like that, Gabrielle Delacour staked a claim to her after. There was no doubt in Severus' mind that she would excel in reforming the French government, her cold calculations the optimal balance to the emotions that ran so deeply within her people. He wondered if she'd planned it or if it had been a spur of the moment decision, an exuberance at actually succeeding in her part of things.

The television exploded in a column of light and sparks. A searing, wordless roar drowned out all thought, and only years of discipline kept Severus from covering his ears. Light flared from the Dark Lord's wand, and even Lucius' broken, agonized screams couldn't entirely drown out the terrifying sound that continued far past a normal man's need for breath.

Severus threw himself from the chair onto his knees, grimly exposing the back of his neck in a show of faith and trust that he sincerely hoped wouldn't backfire on him. The secretary had already fled out the door, escaping something during the transmission, and he wondered how many messages were even now on their way to the white bishops, rooks, and knights, wondered if one was winging towards the white king and queen gathered with a pawn on the top floor of a brothel.

So close that Lucius' flailing arms smacked against him several times, he could actually hear the bones snap into fragments, smell the foul stench of bowels releasing. Blood fountained from the slack mouth. Meeting his grey eyes, Severus watched the life fade from his former mentor's body. Severus wasn't entirely sure there was a hell, but if there was, he sincerely hoped Lucius would burn in it.

It was several minutes more before the enraged Dark Lord lifted the curse from the dead body, his entire face in a rictus of fury. "I have tried to usher us into a good time," he panted, "have tried to restore order and leadership and education. But they betray me, Severus, at every turn! I WILL NOT HAVE IT!" he bellowed, slashing his wand towards his desk; the heavy furniture exploded into splinters. "If they want blood, I will give them blood. And when all is said and done, I will build my glorious empire on their corpses!"


	17. Briar Rose

**Disclaimer: As per usual, I own nothing but the twist. No lawsuits, please.**

_A/N: So here we are, another chapter! And I'm afraid I miscounted last time; there are five AFTER this one. For those who normally check over on Ashwinder, the last chapter and this one are currently in queue; I know they had a submission hiatus in order to fix a problem so presumably they've got a backlog they're wading through. It might be a while before they show up there._

_A/N2: Please leave a review! I know I've been gone a long time, but reviews just make me so damn happy. Think a puppy who's just been told Good Dog for the first time ever._

**Chapter Seventeen: Briar Rose**

For the first time in the history of its current owner, Severus Snape's country house was being readied for guests. The elves, at least, were thrilled. Though they kept the house in pristine condition, this gave them an excuse to really make it shine. For two days, Severus couldn't get anywhere in the building without stepping on at least three elves; he wasn't really sure how many were actually beholden to the house but he had the feeling they'd called for reinforcements.

And he wasn't sure if he should be amused or appalled.

But as the elves cleaned the house, he prepared it, stretching the wards to allow entrance to those who would be coming. It was easier when he'd brought Nocturne with him, partly because she was unconscious but mostly because he'd been physically carrying her; the wards had recognized her as an extension of him. He was not, however, willing to hold the hand of each guest and escort them over the property line and into the house. It would have been rather easier if he'd known exactly who he admitting.

He'd offered his isolated house, one of the very few things he'd asked for as reward, as a gathering place, not fully expecting to be taken up on it. Then had come the message through Lareine that the rooks were flying, whatever that meant, and they needed a safe place to meet with the other pieces.

Promptly at ten o'clock in the morning, he felt the shiver along his spine that meant someone was walking over his property line, and he walked through the house to the front door. Ezekiel, his head elf, opened it to reveal two messengers, their shirts stained with dirt and potions ingredients, hefting armfuls of parcels marked Oakhyer's Apothecary.

"Where would you like these, Lord?"

"This way," he said amusedly. He closed the door behind them and one of the armfuls disappeared.

The messenger with empty arms pulled off the muddy brown flop cap, pulling the rest of the glamour with it, and he found himself looking into the amber eyes of Ginny Weasley. "Welcome back, Professor," she greeted, her voice slightly deeper than he remembered but still essentially the same.

"I had thought to give that remark to you, Miss Weasley," he replied politely. "Is this your first time back in England?"

"Second." She folded the cap and shoved it deep into one pocket. "I came back briefly a few years ago to help Hannah get settled."

The second messenger hefted the armful of packages into a better position. "Seriously, though, where do you want these?"

"What are they?"

"Exactly what they look like, actually," the man answered. "We've been informed that you've been using valuable ingredients towards the cause so we thought we'd replace some of them for you. And it gave us an unremarkable way to approach."

"Ezekiel?"

The house elf bowed and the parcels disappeared with a snap of his thin fingers. "Will puts them on table outsides laboratory, Master."

"That will be fine."

Relieved of his burden, the second messenger pulled off his cap and glamour, revealing the messy black hair and vivid lightning bolt scar of Harry Potter. "Hello, sir."

"Mister Potter."

"Madame Lareine passed along the tokens you gave her; everyone will be the real deal, by virtue of that token."

"I am pleased to hear it. It would be inconvenient were we to allow a spy in our midst."

Ginny snorted. "There are several spies in our midst," she said with grim humor. "They just happen to be for our side."

"Fair enough. We'll be meeting in the garden, through the back of the house."

They nodded and moved off in the direction he indicated.

Only a moment later, he opened the door to Lareine and a small entourage. Nocturne stood beside and slightly behind her, and behind the pair ranged Thanatos and two other bodyguards he was not familiar with. "Madam," he greeted. "Relocating the Lair?"

"Now, Lord Snape," she chided playfully, "you know I never let my girls travel alone!"

He closed the door behind the five, and it wasn't but a moment before one of the men removed his glamour to reveal Blaise Zabini. The other man shifted his features, shrinking in both height and form, until a sprightly woman with a shock of purple hair stood in his place. "Wotcher, Severus!"

"Tonks, Mister Zabini." He glanced curiously at Nocturne and Thanatos, both of whom had left their glamours on, but gave it no comment. "Are we awaiting anyone else?"

"One other," Lareine told him. "It should be just a moment."

Less than that, in fact, as the final guest approached before he'd even given directions to the garden. He opened the door one more time to reveal Pansy Parkinson. "Hello, Professor," she greeted vaguely, and he gave her a more careful look.

"Miss Lovegood?"

"Oh, dear," she replied, completely unperturbed. "I never was very good at pretending to be someone else. Ah, well." She removed her cloak and glamour once the door closed behind her. "Hello, everyone."

"This way, please." Severus led them through the halls out to the spacious garden with its protective barrier of roses. Harry and Ginny stood before one of the statues, hands linked, as he used his free hand to gesture at one of the rose bushes, laughter in his voice. As Severus watched, the messy black hair grew longer, neater, the color leeching away to a platinum blond with a single, brittle streak of white at the nape of the neck. When he turned around, Severus found himself looking at the angular face and grey eyes of his godson.

One black eyebrow arched. "You've been Potter all this time?"

"It was an experience," he agreed mildly, and Ginny snorted eloquently. "Hello, Uncle."

Severus Snape was not an affectionate man, and certainly not a man prone to idle displays, but he gripped his godson's shoulder tightly. "I am glad to see you well, Draco," he said quietly, voice heavy with contained emotion.

Draco gave the hand on his shoulder a light squeeze and a bare smile. "Have we played the game to your satisfaction?"

"Far beyond any expectations I could have had."

"Yes, well, that's not much is it?" Blaise chuckled, settling into a chaise and draping his robes over his ruined left leg. "You thought we were all proper dunderheads through school."

The soft laughter rolled through the group, but it wasn't a lighthearted sound in the slightest; if anything, it sounded almost ominous, and Severus reflected that this was not a group accustomed to laughing anymore. Humor was there, in its own twisted way, but only Blaise let it out freely. Even Tonks, whimsical and clumsy Tonks, had heavy eyes, the kind of burden of experience she'd never had as an Auror.

"Gabrielle elected to stay in France," Tonks reported, plunking herself down on a chair and getting right to business. "We figured Malfoy wasn't much needed there anymore, and she's getting the chaos well in hand. She's already got elections scheduled for a couple of months from now, and she and the Birdies are acting an as interim government."

"She's efficient," Ginny agreed dryly, sitting next to Draco. She reached for a cup of tea and didn't even seem to notice probing it for poisons.

"I'd like to ask two questions, if I may, before we begin?" Severus offered quietly. These were his former students, and he wasn't entirely sure where his diffidence came from, except that he was well aware they wouldn't hesitate to kill him if they saw the need for it. And, perhaps, there was still something in his behavior of his mocking obeisance to the god of irony, and so he continued to be polite even to those he'd so often terrorized.

Nocturne raised one eyebrow. "Ask."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Died in the Final Battle and hung on the gate," Tonks answered gravely, her hair shifting black with grief over her former partner. "Dean played him until he got caught by Dolohov, Lee Jordan is playing him now."

"Kingsley is a figure with a great deal of respect and authority," Draco added. "I'd hate for you to waste your second question asking why we keep him. But between his physical stature and his deep voice, he's someone most people want to pay attention to, and he could stand upon work in the Aurory and for the Muggle Prime Minister. Dean and Lee would have required more explanation, and more effort to make people listen to them."

"And Charlie? He was real."

"He was real," Ginny said, her voice cold.

Severus couldn't tell if that coldness was aimed at him or not.

"Charlie was hit with a degenerative curse during the Final Battle," Blaise continued for the redhead. "It was taking a very long time to kill him, but he was in almost crippling pain. He was on a dangerous diet of pain potions just to function, and every appearance, every speech, made it worse. That was why he chose to eat to meal when we knew there was poison in it."

"A better death."

"Exactly so."

He nodded slowly, adding the information to his list of things to ponder later, when he had some leisure. Those had been his only burning questions, based on the relationships he'd had with the two men; Kingsley had been a friend, in his quiet way, and he'd had a grudging respect for Charlie, not only for being very good at a dangerous job, but for being a Weasley child who wasn't completely deplorable in one way or another in Potions class. For the rest of the information, the rest of the story, he could be patient.

"I received a letter from the Italian Minister," Blaise said after a moment of heavy silence. "Charming little postscript from his daughter."

"Blaise."

"They're flying the phoenix," he said simply. "They didn't do that until France fell, despite having kicked out the Death Eaters. Spain is flying the banner as well, as is Germany."

"Germany?" Lareine echoed. "We didn't even have anyone in Germany."

"For which I'm sure they're grateful," Draco replied wryly.

"The other European countries are considering it as well," continued Blaise. "It's not that they're saying they all want to be united under a single government, mind you, but that they're united in their stand against Snakeface."

Severus winced out of reflex, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by his companions.

"Perhaps we should start at the beginning?" Lareine suggested delicately. "I'm sure Lord Snape would appreciate the full story, and frankly, so would I. I know little enough of it as it stands."

"I suppose it began when Hogwarts fell," Draco mused. "While the rest of us were standing around stunned, Remus, Bill, Charlie, and Hermione already turned the Shrieking Shack into a makeshift Headquarters. There we planned the battles that followed, as well as what to do when we lost those battles."

"We'd lost too many to have any chance of winning," Nocturne said quietly. Even in this gathering, he couldn't quite call her Hermione, not while she still wore the glamour. "Not everyone wanted to admit that, but it was true."

"We all went into the Final Battle with a flask of Polyjuice," Ginny continued. "At the last possible moment, we were to use to give one of the dying our appearance and get the hell out."

"But some of you were on the list of missing rather than the dead."

"For some of us, that was part of the plan," she replied. "Draco, for example. We thought it would be much more impactful if he were missing, mainly for the effect it would have on Lucius. Tonks, too; we liked the idea of them having to worry about a metamorphmagus on the loose."

"Of course it seems no one remembered that," she groused, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Which also worked out to our advantage," Ginny reminded her. "Everyone trying so hard to understand how Neville could be in Spain without glamour or Polyjuice and no one ever even thought of Tonks. Including you," she added at Snape, a smug gleam to her amber eyes. He nodded to acknowledge the point. "And then there were those of us who had our flasks meet with misfortune. Mine took a curse meant for me and exploded." She pressed a hand against the spiderweb of scars across her abdomen but didn't elaborate. "Those of us who survived met at the Shrieking Shack long enough to get a tally and give final assignments and then we scattered."

"Obviously our first concern was London," Nocturne took up. Severus took slight comfort from the others being as unused to her gravelly voice as he was. "With how quickly Knockturn Alley spread, we thought a brothel a safe choice. Pansy ran a small house for us until we could catch the attention of Lareine."

"At which point I bought their contracts," the Madam continued. "It was some time before I was taken into confidence, I assume to see if I would be a willing accomplice."

"Why were you?" asked Severus curiously. "Surely this atmosphere is better for your business?"

"Severus, I'm in the business of flesh; prominence aside, that business will always flourish, out in the open or not." The teasing smile faded from her cornflower eyes. "Even those of us who profit off of these dark times don't necessarily want them to be like this. I would gladly go back to my quiet establishment away from decent eyes if it meant the streets were truly safe for children again. One of my favorite times of the year was watching all the Muggleborn families navigate Diagon Alley for the first time as their children prepared for Hogwarts. The Dark Lord can try all he likes to be a civilizing force but that will never hide what he is nor how he came to be. He's an abomination against reason and nature."

"Can we steal that line?"

"I think we already did; didn't Gabrielle shriek that at one of the Cannes rallies?"

"We sent Michael to America to polish his Yankee accent, make it seem like he'd spent more time there than he actually did, and get him involved as a visible activist in things closer to home for them. We figured that would be a good way to bridge up to the presidential race," Draco told him, ignoring the banter between Blaise and Tonks. "Sent a pack of Birdies with him, including Colin Creevey, who's proved worth his weight in gold."

"Patil we sent to India, Cho Chang to China. China was the larger concern, given the possibility of an actual alliance, but keeping India stirred up didn't seem like a bad idea with so many people. Not to mention it gave us something to do with Patil. We have someone else working on things there now, though in an invisible fashion."

The look on Ginny Weasley's face told him quite clearly that he wasn't going to be given that information, so he didn't even bother to ask.

"Why Longbottom?" he asked instead.

"Because we could exploit the history," Tonks answered. "Not only was he a very visible friend to Harry and a member of Dumbledore's Army and the Junior Order, but the memory of his parents' torture and subsequent insanity could be used to garner sympathy, and thus support."

"There were a number of people we thought about impersonating," Blaise admitted. "Certainly we'd prepared for all of them. But further consideration gave us reason to aim mostly for our own age in such things."

"Considerations such as?"

"My father, while a good, intelligent man respected within the Order, wouldn't have been listened to outside of it," Ginny answered frankly. "My mother even less so. To impersonate one of them would have been both foolish and counterproductive."

"Dumbledore," Draco added with a grimace. "But there's really just imitating that, is there?"

"Why none of the Golden Trio?" Several frowns greeted Severus' question but he simply took a sip of tea. "It was what it was called, in sarcasm or no, and recognizable for that fact."

"We wanted things in place first before we brought out Draco as Harry." Ginny glanced briefly at her lover, eyes darkening with some memory no one questioned her on. "Michael and Charlie were the first to be visible; the rest of worked in the background for years to get information and sympathies and support. When Tom ordered Charlie's death…well, it was the opportune moment, wasn't it? With Charlie dead, out stepped the true leader."

"And by then, the foundations were laid in other countries, our Birdies augmented by locals. It's a surprisingly vast operation, for all there are so few who know the full scope of it."

Severus raised an eyebrow across at Nocturne; she sat in the same chaise as before, though fully clothed this time, leaning back against Thanatos' broad chest. "You came to the foreground before Charlie's death was ordered."

"He was a visible agitator," she replied with a careless shrug, "and he was becoming a successful one. We knew Tom would have to order something done about him. You were simply supposed to be an unwitting source of information on that score."

"That worked out well," Blaise added sardonically.

"Ultimately to our advantage," Draco reminded him, giving his godfather a quick smile. "He's a large part of what got my father out of the way, after all. Luna was our researcher; every idea we had magically speaking filtered through her and Hermione before we tried it. We had her hiding with Pansy so she could get access to most of the Dark libraries in England."

"And to protect the book of Horcruxes."

Luna raised a hand to her necklace of butterbeer caps, hidden under her robes. "Madame Lareine was helping Pansy get Gregory out of the house for a few days, but he was being resistant. Pansy got flustered when you came up to them and left the book behind."

"And you came back for it; was it worth the risk to have both of you out as Pansy at the same time?"

"Oh, for the rest of the day I was…" She frowned slightly, thumb and finger plucking at her bottom lip. "Someone else," she finished finally. "Vincent's sister, I think."

Her companions simply rolled their eyes, too used to her floating attention to even be dismayed by it anymore. It struck him that they must have enormous trust in her skills as a researcher to tolerate her lapses in such a high stakes game.

Nocturne smoothed back a lock of blue-black hair, her hand dropping down to lie elegantly in her lap. Had it become habit by this point? Was such grace simply instilled in her now? "If the destruction of his other Horcruxes had been brought to Tom's attention, he most likely would have made more, and we'd be back at square one."

"Not quite that far," Blaise disagreed. "Too many avenues of information to be all the way back at the beginning."

"When you stepped the appearance of Potter up to the fore, why did you not also bring the appearance of Hermione and Ronald?"

"We wanted to keep Hermione's brilliance as a secret weapon," Draco answered. His face had always been angular but it was thinner now, from years of hard living. "Being uncertain of your loyalties, we didn't want you reminding Snakeface of her intellect."

"As for Ron, well..." Ginny smiled crookedly, not at all a nice sort of a smile. "My family was a cornerstone of the Order, a freckled, redheaded mass of Light. Martyrdom seems to suit us in the memories of most."

"And the two young men?"

Eight carefully blank stares were his only response and he nodded to show that he understood the silence. "Time for lunch, I think," he said instead. "If there is a later, there will be time to hear the rest of the story; after lunch, we should discuss the more immediate future."

"Before the after," Blaise murmured.

Summoned by their Master, the elves set out a buffet of light foods, allowing everyone to fill their plates and wander about the garden as they would. Severus wasn't entirely surprised to find Draco off by himself, staring at a climb of delicate peach roses. "Your mother gave me the cutting for that," he said quietly. "Said if I wasn't going to trouble myself to find a woman's touch to gentle me, she'd just have to do it herself."

"When was this?"

"Between the Fall of Hogwarts and the Final Battle. We believed you and Pansy Parkinson to be off on an outing of some sort."

"Some sort," Draco agreed almost whimsically, but the smile quickly faded. "Pansy said my mother fell apart."

"She did. She loved you a great deal more than even she realized."

"Sir? Why didn't you fight in the battle? If your loyalty was to the old man all along, why didn't you come back?"

"Because even Dumbledore made mistakes," he sighed heavily. "His plan was that a very few highly placed in the Order would know that what I had done was done by his orders, along with an explanation of why. I would then pass information to the rest of the Order through these individuals, and when the time came for the last struggle, I would stand beside them and they would vouch for me, and the battle would determine things once and for all. However, he did not expect the school to close, and so his papers were never gone through, and had I attempted to initiate contact, I would have been killed out of hand. The Dark Lord forbade me to fight in the Battle, so my fellow Death Eaters would have attempted to kill me for disobeying our Master, and the Order would have tried to kill me on sight."

"But then you just accepted it."

"I have spent the majority of my life in supreme danger, but I am not, nor have I ever been, suicidal," he said simply. "I survived. I had no idea what to do with that survival, but it was mine. I was so sure the Headmaster couldn't fail. Oh, I'd seen make errors and mistakes before, some of them quite grave, but my faith in him was so absolute in its own way that it didn't even occur to me that he would ultimately fail."

The two men, not much dissimilar, stood for a time in silence, studying the roses bobbing gently in the breeze over the garden wall. When he spoke again, Draco's voice was soft and low. "You said that you were proud of us."

Recalling that first letter, Severus nodded. "I don't know if it meant anything, but yes, I was, and I still am. You have managed to accomplish what I couldn't even fathom."

"It meant something. At least to me." With that, Draco bowed and excused himself, heading over to talk to Blaise.

Severus remained apart for a time, eating and simply watching the conversations- spoken and otherwise- occurring around him. Draco and Blaise punctuated their discussion with the biting commentary they'd always possessed, polished now by years of experience. Such wit was expected of the princes of Slytherin, though few enough had readily portrayed it. Though the sarcasm was the same as ever, it was more pointed now, all of the excess trimmed away to create a statement that drove right to the heart of a matter. He could see the twisted remnants of Zabini's left leg when the concealing robes shifted just for a moment, quickly hidden again as he adjusted his position but his silver topped black cane- an affectation for Lucius, a necessity for Blaise- gave him a dashing air which he no doubt employed to great benefit.

Nearby, Ginny and Nocturne sat together, Thanatos a guarding presence as always. The women spoke in low tones, nothing so ostentatious as a whisper, but their words would go no farther than they wanted them to. Though Hermione as a student had always been friendly to the other girls, it was only Ginny she was truly close with, but then, Miss Weasley had grown up with boys and knew how to deal with them. The two girls had likely found a welcome relief in the other, without it being the shallow vanities of Lavender Brown or Parvati Patil. Nocturne's expression bore its usual enigmatic serenity, while the redhead's brow was furrowed in a frown. If he looked very carefully, though, he could see the slight tightening around those vivid violet eyes that indicated Nocturne was not entirely indifferent to the subject of their discussion.

At the small table closest to the light buffet, Lareine conversed easily with Tonks and Luna. Mostly Tonks, it seemed, drawing from her stories of the women at the brothels she'd frequented as Longbottom. Luna seemed content to stand in the vicinity of the conversation, her bulbous blue eyes wandering vaguely overhead, as if the swirling eddies of air contained some mysterious creature only she could see.

And suddenly, just for a moment, he wondered if this genteel repast was any less ludicrous than the Dark Lord eating muffins. The Dark Lord met in a conference room with a blonde secretary and a basket of muffins, and they met in an arbor of roses and an elegant buffet, but both meeting resulted in death warrants and action and orders.

A slight movement at his side made him glance towards Nocturne, noting the absence of her everpresent shadow, and he nodded a greeting to the silent man at his side. He no longer worried about how the tall man snuck up on him so handily; for the moment it was enough to know that the enigma was on his side.

The familiar, comfortable silence between them was effortless now, a wordlessness that was very nearly communion in some fashion. Severus nearly dropped his plate in shock when the other man cleared his throat.

"About Hermione," he said abruptly, his voice deep and harsh.

Severus waited patiently.

"You should be careful," continued Thanatos after a moment's thought. "At this point, I'd say she's far more capable of hurting you than you are of hurting her."

"Perhaps that's as it should be," he replied quietly. Thanatos simply looked at him. "Scars are never limited to the body; so long as she can truly wound me, it reminds her that she has a choice. That's not something she's had in some time."

"We knew the risks, and the price, when we chose this course."

"I don't mean to imply otherwise."

The guard nodded slowly. "She doesn't know about the Patronus. Whether she finds out or not is your choice."

"Thank you."

The silence reclaimed them until Lareine called them back to the chairs. The food disappeared but for a fresh pot of tea and a few plates of finger foods. Severus wondered idly if his elves had been unhappy all these years with only him to care for.

"India is stable again," Tonks reported without preamble. "Our falcon has to fly carefully, there's a lot of interference, but things are getting done. There are pictures of Patil everywhere."

"Wilkes is the Death Eater in charge there now, yes?" At Luna's nod, Ginny sipped her tea. "He's not as bumbling as some of the others. Not brilliant or inspired, either, but he's good at following orders."

"Hence flying carefully, but things are well in hand."

"My betrothed is successfully causing problems in Russia," Blaise said dryly. "Is Lee prepared for that?"

Draco nodded. It was odd to see him and Thanatos in such close proximity; while Severus now knew that Thanatos' appearance had specifically been chosen to unsettle people, they were close enough to seem brothers. "The mountains are ready to topple. One of our recent skirmishes gave us Theodore Nott as a captive; some Polyjuice and a well-timed Confundus Charm, and Ishtari will hand us the third martyrdom of Kingsley Shacklebolt. The mountains love him and he'd mediated a lot of village disputes very fairly; they'll rant and roar, and I might apologize in advance, Blaise, but your betrothed will likely end up running for her life."

"She's a resourceful girl, I'm sure she'll manage."

"Miss Clemens does not number among you?"

"She's sympathetic to the cause, but her younger brothers believe in the Dark Lord, and she's always been very protective of them," Blaise replied. "It is, however, one of the reasons she's so efficient when she's given orders; she'll do what she has to do, but she'll do with as little bloodshed as possible."

"You sound like you're planning on using that for an after," Ginny observed, and the light-skinned black shrugged.

"Perhaps I am. We're getting closer to it, after all."

"So is Lee pulling out of Russia completely once the mountains dance?" Tonks asked with a frown.

"Some of the Birdies will remain, to make sure things continue on their course, but Lee will actually be returning to Scotland; he's also decided on some plans for an after."

It was difficult to judge from Ginny's tone whether she disapproved of that or not.

"Is Hannah safe where she is right now?"

"Of course not, but she's already said she's staying as long as she can." Blaise smiled lazily. "We've been in fairly constant contact and she's got a solid escape plan if she needs it, but until then, she's feeding us a lot of valuable information."

"Colin finally got some incriminating photos of the sitting president," Luna reported, checking a piece of parchment that, so far as Severus could determine, was full of idle drawings and no actual information. "In exchange for not releasing them to the international press, he's ceased his efforts to hamper Michael."

"China's about to fall apart," Draco told them grimly. "The last several letters we've gotten from Cho have been increasingly strained. She's losing her grip on the people."

"As long as she's not losing her grip on herself," muttered Blaise.

"No, that's still as secure as it ever was. She was supposed to come to this meeting but couldn't safely get away. She's not able to stop the riots anymore, and the escapes from arrest are getting slimmer and slimmer."

"Is there a way to help her?" Tonks asked doubtfully. "Send her more Birdies?"

"It was hard enough to get her the Birdies she has," Ginny disagreed. "Wizarding China is almost entirely sealed off; I don't think we could even get more over the border."

"An assassin?"

"No," said Nocturne. "If she's losing her grip on the people, it won't be as impactful."

"Capture? Can we risk that?"

Draco glanced towards Severus. "Sir? You've moved from left hand to right, do you think you could convince Snakeface of the value of a live captive?"

"You intend to have her brought her for questioning?" he asked, just to clarify, and his godson nodded. "And you are absolutely certain she will withstand such questioning?"

"I don't think any of us intend to let it get that far," Draco replied, looking around the circle. Tonks paled but nodded slowly, and neither Lareine nor Luna contributed, but the others nodded as well. "Snakeface isn't going to like finding out that not even his personal dungeon is safe."

"If he takes it as external interference," his lover cautioned him. "He could as easily assume that it's an overzealous underling."

"Even better," Blaise said promptly. "He's lost the mask of polish, returning to curse first and demand answers from corpses later. Taking out the guards assigned to the cell will only make the other Death Eaters nervous. Like returning to the old days of mud and blood."

"We'll give you the way to get to Cho, but you have to make him understand that she needs to be taken alive," Draco continued, still studying his godfather.

"Time it to the 'death' of Kingsley," Tonks suggested with a pained look. "When he's heard about the death but not yet about the mountains' reaction to it. That'll lift his mood; he'll be more likely to agree that way." She shrugged, her hair turning into a wild mane of bristling grey hair. "It worked on Moody."

The plotting continued late into the evening and through another meal; Ezekiel was actually smiling when he set out the dinner. When they finally adjourned and scattered, it was with only vague consternation that Severus realized he had no idea where half of them were going. Blaise, he knew, was going back to Ireland, Luna to Pansy's, and the Lair's contingent would of course be returning, but he didn't know where Ginny, Draco-as-Harry, or Tonks would be haring off to.

But then, there was a great deal else he didn't know, and having resolved himself to that, he couldn't convince himself to worry too stringently about locations. Mentally exhausted but more aware than he'd been in a very long time, he retired to bed and pretended his dreams weren't laced with lavender and heather.

"Do we know what he's celebrating?" Lareine asked as she arranged her hair.

Severus shook his head, already in his silver trimmed black velvet robes. "He asked me to see to the arrangements, or rather personally hand them over to you, but said he would announce the cause tonight. There was only one body-sized lump in Nagini, however, so he was in a good mood."

She shuddered delicately, fixing the last pin into her artful tumble of curls. "I loathe that reptile," she admitted.

"Which one?"

She smacked his thigh with the brush and set it down on the vanity, her hand moving to the pots of cosmetics arrayed before her.

He smirked and prowled about her practical room, inspecting the everpresent cauldron of contraceptive on the side desk, scanning the titles of the rare potions texts she'd accumulated over the years. She was more qualified than most Potions Masters he'd worked with in his career, but would never hold the title, of that he was sure. Lareine hadn't entered her business by choice, but having climbed to her current position, she would continue to look after her girls. She protected them as much as she could, and never forced them into anything; if she allowed someone else to acquire her business so she could pursue a qualification she already had in all but name, would another madam be as kind?

When Lareine was fully ready, her body hugged enticingly by cerulean robes enhanced by delicate gold embroidery, he offered her his arm and they walked out of the private halls together.

The Dark Lord smiled to see them thus, his thin lips curving into a hideous approximation of humor. "Madame Lareine," he said with a bow. "I am grateful once again for your hospitality."

She curtsied in reply, lightly bracing her weight on her escort's arm. "You honor us, Lord."

Full gentility- the Dark Lord was _very_ happy about something. They followed him into the dining room, where the rest of the Inner Circle currently in London was already gathered. In an unprecedented move, he gestured Lareine to the empty chair on Severus' right, including her in the celebratory dinner. She hid her surprise in an appropriate expression of honor and sank into another curtsey before allowing Severus to scoot the chair under her.

"My servants, we gather to celebrate two great victories tonight," he told them, vermillion gaze traveling over each man in turn. "My loyal Ishtari Clemens has won me the final death of Kingsley Shacklebolt! Russia will trouble us no more. And Severus, my devoted second, had given us a second victory; his hard-earned information had brought the downfall of the bitch in China!" Over the muted cheers, Voldemort laid a hand atop the Potions Master's dark braid in disturbing benediction. "Even now, Severus, she is brought to us for questioning. I do not forgive failure, but neither do I forget success, and you have pleased me greatly."

Severus bowed his head, schooling his expression into the proper humility.

Check.


	18. Winds of Aulis

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the words on the page.**

_A/N: So, how many people did I scare with the one week gap? *grins* I do still work full time, so most writing happens on my days off, lately Sundays and Mondays (but given that I'm in retail, that is always subject to change)- updates will generally be on those days. As always, please review! It really makes my day when I come home to the e-mails!_

**Chapter Eighteen: Winds of Aulis**

Deep in the dungeon's bowels, impossibly far under the working levels of the Ministry of Magic, Cho Chang huddled in the corner of her cell farthest from the door. Blood slowly filled her mouth, and each time she felt close to drowning, she spat it out beside her, then tucked back into a tight ball and tasted the heavy copper tang as the blood continued to flow. Her silky black hair hung around her face in greasy strings, starting to curl in over the dirt to form solid clumps. Her body- the entire cell- reeked of fear and sweat and fluids.

She hadn't been clean since she'd been captured, her guards striving to demoralize her just that much more. Even in the overall stench of the dungeon, she was very aware of the reek of her body, the acrid sweat combining with the shit and piss and blood to create a smell she just couldn't get used to.

And she ached. Her entire body throbbed in time to her heartbeat, blood seeping out from the gashes and in from the bruises. Every breath wheezed in her chest, the muscles too tight to give her a full breath.

And yet…

And yet…

She smiled slightly, as wide as her split, swollen lips would allow.

She hadn't given them anything.

She'd never been the best in class, never been the one to dazzle with her skills or knowledge, never been someone that others relied upon for any modicum of protection. Even when she had stepped up to the plate, when she had assumed a task among the major pieces of the board, she had failed, losing her grip on a country they desperately needed at least neutral. But now, now when it mattered the most, she was succeeding. In spite of everything they'd done to her, she hadn't said a word.

Well, she'd said a few, but 'fuck off' wasn't quite what they wanted to hear, and a few of her suggestions were probably anatomical impossibilities.

And had it been her imagination, or had the dour Potions Master's pitch eyes gleamed with dark humor, and for the first time in all the years since she'd met him- was that respect? If it was, it vanished far too quickly to be sure of it. She knew, in a vague sort of way, that the other pieces had discussed Professor Snape, but her position in China had destabilized too soon after he walked onto the board for her to have been updated on his color or piece.

For the best, now. What she didn't know, she couldn't tell, just in case she broke. Just in case she failed at this as she'd failed in China.

She spat out another mouthful of blood.

Her only working eye traveled around the tiny cell, unable to make out any shapes in the absolute darkness. The other was lost within a mass of swollen flesh, the orb itself bruised from being nearly gouged out by someone's thumb. Every finger was broken in multiple places, more gnarled than any old woman's; even if she'd had the strength to walk, if her other injuries had permitted it, her balance would have been rubbish with nearly all her toes cut off.

But she hadn't said anything.

She had a fair idea that she'd been sacrificed. The Death Eaters had found her hideout just a little too handily, known how to take out the guards with her- and none of her Birdies had been there. She was so used to them flying out whenever they had some task towards assisting the larger goal she hadn't thought it odd that none of them had been in the ancient tomb they'd been using that fortnight. But then came the attack, and the realization, and then the acceptance. She'd put up a token resistance, as any member of the board would be expected to do, but she'd known as soon as she lifted her wand that it was a swan song.

She'd wondered, briefly, why they'd sacrificed her, but it didn't matter. Even with her grip on China slipping, they wouldn't have given her up if it didn't accomplish something greater.

And she was strangely okay with that.

She'd expected to die, to finally be free of the game. Oh, she'd entered it willingly, and she played it with all that was in her, but she couldn't deny that a very large part of her had been relieved that it would be over.

Except then they'd captured her, and around everything they'd done to her had swirled the order: do not harm her. In a lurching series of Portkeys and meager rests, her guards had brought her across the world to England.

To home.

And then down into the bowels of the earth. That's when it had really begun, the torture and the pain and the fierce triumph when only curses spilled from her bloody lips. That's when Snakeface himself came down into the depths, his fine robes trailing unheeded through the filth and slime, when he'd burned through her mind with Legilimency and encountered only the shields. She'd never progressed to the point where she could spin false images but she didn't have to; even Hermione, who'd gotten so good, couldn't break her shield. It hurt, it hurt so badly, drowning her in pain until it swept her into merciful unconsciousness, until she was roused too short a time later, but she didn't break.

She didn't break.

And she didn't say a word.

They'd tried Veritaserum next, but while she'd felt the compulsion to speak, she'd been able to lock her teeth on the sounds. Been able to wonder if the potion was at full strength, or if Occlumency actually had some affect on the truth serum. The fierce scowl on her former professor's face told her nothing, something she found soothing. Give nothing, get nothing. Where there's a balance, there's no debt, no question. No riddle.

She shook her head carefully, clenching her jaw against a tide of nausea and dizziness. She'd been alone in this cell too long. She'd never been the most solemn of people, but her thoughts were getting silly even for her.

Before the game, before the chessboard, that would never have occurred to her. She'd taken herself so seriously, thought herself so grand and talented.

She hadn't known anything.

Even now, years into the game, she wasn't sure how much she knew. She knew what she absolutely had to know to accomplish her task, or at least attempt it, but she'd never been privy to the bigger picture, and for that she was grateful. Oh, she'd gone to the few meetings on the rare occasions it was safe to get away, listened and contributed where she could, but even where she saw all the pieces, she couldn't put the picture together. Didn't need to.

Far down the twisting corridor, she could hear the raucous voices of the guards and tormentors. If she pretended she was dreaming, she could almost convince herself that she'd fallen asleep in a pub. There were times when they fell silent with such fear that she knew the Dark Lord was on his way, could shore up her shields with what little strength she'd managed to gain during her rest.

One thing the game had taught her was that it was never so simple as good and evil. Good people could still do bad things, could still screw up, and bad people could do genuinely good things. It wasn't enough to judge a person by their words or their actions, not when motivations were so complex and hid so many truths. It had seemed so simple in school. There was good, and there was evil. There was Gryffindor, and there was Slytherin, with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs more or less neutral territory.

She'd long since stopped wondering if they were the good guys. When it came right down to it, there were no good guys, not anymore. She knew there were still bad guys, but there were different levels of bad, of evil, and those shades of grey held all the pieces of the game. Instead of good and evil, the world was split into people who would do something and people who wouldn't, people who would be used and people who would use.

The twisted echoes changed to a different kind of laughter, the sound of rough men trying to impress a woman they all knew was too good for them. She could never make out the individual words, the noise too garbled by the twists and turns in the long corridor to retain the meaning. This time, she couldn't hear if the woman made any kind of response.

Then she heard the steady, rhythmic click of dainty heels on the stone, muffled only slightly by the thick layer of slime, and realized the woman was coming towards her.

She pushed herself up against the wall, painfully resting her back on the damp, moldy stone. A few moments later, the flare of light around the corner blinded her. In some pocket of her mind, she knew that it was just the lit tip of a wand- there was a certain quality to the light, a soft pulse that whispered of magic- and that wand light was not actually all that bright. But she'd been in darkness for so long now, she wasn't even sure if it had been days or weeks that had passed. Her working eye burned with tears, spots dancing against the corona, but she stayed calm and listened.

The tap-tap-tap of the heels stopped in front of her cell, and there was a slight shuffle as the woman used both key and spell to unlock the door. The light dimmed, or perhaps she was simply becoming used to it, because after several long moments of silence, she could make out the shape of the woman standing before her.

She was tall and fairly slim, clad in a sensible pencil skirt and cardigan of pale mint green under deep forest robes. Long blonde hair coiled around her head in two thick braids, her makeup simple and clean. Her wand rested across the palm of the same hand holding a plain, small tray, balancing both against the span of her fingers.

"His Lordship wants you kept alive," the blonde said quietly, and she bent down just enough to set the tray at Cho's side. She investigated it, finding a glass of clear liquid and a stack of salted crackers. "Anything more would sit badly on your stomach."

For lack of any reason not to, Cho ate the crackers and drank what turned out to be water. So far as she could tell, nothing had been added, but she didn't even bother to do a wandless probe for poison. If she died, it would only end the pain.

When the tray was clear, the woman took it back and tucked it under her elbow. Blue eyes grave, she undid the top button of her white blouse and lifted a white bishop from her cleavage. Without a single word, she held it out to Cho.

The captive studied it for almost a full minute, then reached out with her mutilated hands and managed to sandwich the piece between pulpy palms. She brought it to her mouth, using her chin to flip back the top and reveal the thick, pale pink liquid within. Her arms shook with the effort of maintaining such control with her injuries, but she managed to consume the sweet poison.

Her eyes closed, her muscles relaxing just enough to allow her full breaths, and Miss Sigurdson gently pulled the bishop from the slack grasp and closed it, wrapping it a fine lawn handkerchief before sliding it back into its place in her shirt. She rebuttoned the top button, adjusted the deep neck of her cardi, and stood a moment longer in the cell, watching Cho sleep.

It would take an hour or so for the sleep to become death, but there would be no pain, and no evidence of anything other than a natural death as a result of her injuries.

With a sharp nod, Ingrid switched her wand to her primary hand and used the light to lead her out of the dank prison.

Severus was summoned the next morning, the pain in his arm actually making him retch before it subsided enough to allow him to Apparate. He was in his laboratory, despite the early hour, testing various potions and creams on a collection of garden snakes his elves brought him. As he writhed on the stone floor, the nifflers rushed to the front of their cages to watch the strange sight of their dark human shaking and swearing.

But the pain did ease, and as soon as he was able to pick himself up off the floor, Severus threw on his silver-trimmed black robes and appeared at the gates of the Ministry, his fluid stride eating the paces between the grand front doors and the highly polished desk of the Dark Lord's secretary.

As soon as she saw him approach, Miss Sigurdson stood and walked the short distance to the heavy door, her knuckles tapping delicately against the wood. "My Lord, Lord Snape is here." She didn't wait for a response, but retreated quickly to the dubious safety of her desk.

The Dark Lord emerged a moment later, blood spattered across his pale, reptilian face and black robes. He didn't appear to notice. "Severusss," he hissed, and the Potions Master knelt in full obeisance. "I require your excellent memory."

"All I have, I place in service to you, my Lord," he answered humbly.

"Come."

Wondering at the blood, and not daring to ask, Severus waited until the dark robes brushed against him before he stood and followed the tyrant through the maze of hallways and departments. The Ministry had been a place of barely contained chaos once, full of noise and paper airplanes that soared overhead. Employees had chattered together as they stood waiting for or in elevators, clustered together into the various cafeterias. Even under the Dark Lord's hand, there had still been some quality of noise- subdued, yes, but small talk will inevitably arise from people working together long hours each day in a generally miniscule office.

Except for their steps ringing on the dark marble, the entire building was silent. As they passed partially open doorways, they could hear the scratch of quill on parchment, the slight shush of papers being moved, the squeak of a chair as someone shifted position. No chatter, no conversation.

The silence followed them down to the dungeons, save for the obnoxiously bright 'ding!' of the elevator as the doors opened.

Severus clenched his jaw against the natural revulsion of what he saw there.

Six guards were assigned to the guard room at all times, six men responsible for making sure no prisoner escaped. They were largely superfluous; by the time someone arrived in the Dark Lord's dungeon, they were far too close to dying for escape to even be feasible. But these guards also beat steadily at morale and health, augmenting the efficient interrogations and torture sessions designed to extract information or deliver excruciating punishment with brutal and untimed savagery.

In a way, there were still six of them.

Three of them were still alive, but Severus couldn't find any pity or compassion for the unlucky bastards. They were here because their brutality made them unsuited for any more delicate work, because they had no polished edges that would let them maneuver in the world above to help create the civilized Dark World their Master wanted to create. He'd seen the results of their work time and time again in those early years.

All six hung by their ankles, the heavy hooks digging through flesh and tendon, shattering bone. It was easy, now, to guess where the blood on the Dark Lord's robes had come from. The living trio twitched and groaned as raw nerves spasmed with each movement of air. Easy, too, to guess how the other three had died. Heaps of skin clung to the walls like cooked spaghetti, a few in the process of peeling down and thus hanging obscenely out into the air.

The men had been skinned alive.

By spells, he decided, forcing himself to study the strips of flesh. The edges were too clean, too neat. These men had been fastidiously skinned.

"M-m-master," one of them whimpered.

Voldemort lifted his robes and kicked the man savagely in the head with a sickening squelch; blood fountained from the man's mouth. "You are not worthy of calling me Master," he hissed, and the final two guards groaned.

"Severus, I will not waste your time on these cretins," he continued, shaking the worst of the blood off his boot. "Come this way."

With another bow, Severus followed him down the twisting corridors. The dungeons were vast, but made to seem more so by the constant doubling back of the walkways, designed to confuse anyone trying to run. Light bloomed along the ceiling, illuminating their way, but he would rather have made the walk in wand light. At least there the shadows provided some illusions. Here, he could see the skeletons and corpses that had never been removed, see the slime and the mold and the rats scurrying away from the light, only to return to the decaying bodies once they passed.

And there, in one of the final cells, he could a mutilated blonde woman stretched out across the floor of her cell.

…blonde?

Frowning, he cast a quick look towards the Dark Lord and received an irritable wave of the hand as permission to enter. He held a corner of his robes in one hand, keeping them out of the worst of the filth, but he would probably burn them when he got back to the house anyway. He crouched down and used his wand to lift the grimy hair away from the face.

He'd known Cho Chang numbered among the dead even before the final battle, too distracted with morbid reminiscence of Cedric and Harry to focus properly on learning the defenses that might have saved her life. What he hadn't known was who they'd chosen to emulate her.

And now he did.

"Which one was she?" the Dark Lord demanded.

"Lavender Brown, a Gryffindor yearmate of the Trio."

"I have seen her before," he mused.

"Yes, Lord- when three of the girls were captured in Diagon Alley."

"Ah, yes. Now. How did she die?"

_By a gentle poison created in my lab_, he thought, but did not say. He performed a series of charms taught to him by none other than Poppy Pomfrey, spells that made the air above the body dance in color. Lungs collapsed, other internal organs severely compromised, massive internal bleeding, blood in the lungs themselves… "It seems, Lord, as though she died from her injuries."

"Yes, but is it what it seems?" he hissed, and Severus automatically dropped his head into a respectful bow. Ah, the reflexes that stay with one through the years. "They are never as they seem!"

Carefully, Severus recast each charm one at a time, explaining the information each imparted. It was a razor-thin line, explaining something to the Dark Lord without making him feel like there was a deficiency in his knowledge. He even cast the search spell for poison.

However, having had ample opportunity over the years to study that particular spell, he'd also had plenty of opportunity to design poisons around what it could detect, a fact the Dark Lord had taken advantage of many times before. But also a fact he was unlikely to remember now.

Finally, the blood-spattered man nodded wearily. "Severus, how can they accomplish this?" he asked, waving at the corpse on the floor. "Her wand was snapped and burned, she was thoroughly searched, and she's been our prisoner for over a fortnight. How could this happen?"

How much could he safely give? How close could his answer come to the truth without endangering the other pieces? "A number of years ago, Master, I had a conversation with Flitwick regarding improvements made upon glamours," he said carefully. "He was of the opinion that the art was trembling on the edge of rapid advancement." There was the truth, now for the lie. "He believed that, with time, someone would discover how to create an anchored glamour."

"An anchored glamour?"

"Yes, Lord. The glamour would be cast into an object- a crystal, for example- and that object would act as an anchor for the spell for far longer than an individual could anchor it within themselves. If the spell had been freshly recast just before her capture, it could have sustained through her death. With that, of course, the spell would end."

"Like the second Shacklebolt."

"Precisely, Lord."

Scowling, Voldemort paced around the body, crimson eyes dark with thought. "Then Potter could still be false," he murmured. "Andrei said there was no Polyjuice, that he was with them for longer than a glamour could hold. But if they have uncovered this anchored secret…Potter could also be false."

"A school friend would have had ample opportunity to learn Potter's mannerisms," Severus offered cautiously, ruthlessly tamping down his private amusement. "Knowing that, it would not be difficult to give a convincing performance to people who have only seen him in papers."

"Where is he, Severus?" he growled. "Ishtari Clemens brought down Shacklebolt but no one has stepped into the void! Where is the Potter-double and the Weasley bitch? Why have they not stepped forward to cry vengeance?"

He wasn't about to inform him that they were otherwise occupied in London.

"This must end, Severus," he sighed without waiting for an answer. "We were so close to something greater. We must return to that greatness. This must end."

"I will work towards the end with everything I am," Severus vowed, and felt the slight swirl of magic around him.

Pleased with this sign of his loyalty and determination, Voldemort released him to his tasks, returning to expressing his disappointment with the surviving guards.

But, Severus reflected as he walked out of the Ministry, the Dark Lord had never fully realized that Wizards' Oaths were not based purely upon words. Magic so rarely was. He would work towards the end, with everything in him. The end of these Dark times, the end of the fear, the end of the Dark Lord. The end.

He rubbed his left arm through the heavy winter robes, echoes of the agony twinging all the way up to his shoulder. He'd given Miss Sigurdson the poison before Cho- or rather, Lavender- had even arrived in England. The timeline was entirely up to her; none of them knew when she would make the delivery. As the days crawled by, they all grew a little nervous, though none of them showed it.

Now, with it done, he could appreciate her timing. Making sure the prisoner ate would be the one reason she could justifiably be down in the dungeon, and she would have planned it so that the guards would have a check on the prisoner before the poison fully took effect. The prisoner was alive when she left, alive when the guards checked on her. The death couldn't be connected to her visit.

And he wondered, as he frequently did, which one Miss Sigurdson was, and how in hell had she managed to become the Dark Lord's secretary?

An idea was tickling in the back of his skull, a swirling, teasing kind of motion that meant it was an idea worth pursuing. And just as surely, if he tried to catch it before it was fully formed, it would go skittering away to be lost forever as fragments full of promise. Severus had long since learned the virtue of letting these ideas come to full life in their own time, so he didn't push it, didn't wrack his brains trying to make the threads come together.

Instead, he walked slowly through Knockturn and Diagon Alleys, just coming into life at this hour of the morning. Shopkeepers unlocked their doors and swept the front steps, ignoring the snarled curses from the boothies trying to set up their stalls. A few shoppers already prowled the street, but most of them seemed more intent on purchasing breakfast than on anything else.

He purchased a black coffee and sat down at one of the spindly street-side tables, sipping the steaming drink and watching the parade as more people started filling the space. None dared intrude upon his solitude, and there were few enough who would have dared give him greeting anyway. Pansy Parkinson, her figure blooming under her robes, caught his eye and gave him a respectful nod, a gesture from a former student of his house to her professor, but continued on without a word.

Slowly over the course of the morning and a second cup of coffee, the fragments of the idea fell into place, and he nearly snorted into his drink at the larger picture of it. Quickly finishing, he left the cup and saucer on the table and threaded his way through the now crowded street. Whether it was his sense of purpose, his famously nasty disposition, or simply the dungeon-reek of his Death Eater robes, others gave him a wide berth.

Once inside the Lair, Rachel simply nodded to him from her desk. By now, his presence in the Lair was so commonplace that it wasn't even worth alerting the madam. He would find her soon enough as it was.

Severus skipped her office, where she was likely to be at this time, and went directly into her private chambers. Out of habit, he checked the contraceptive bubbling off to the side and adjusted the flame ever so slightly. He wouldn't add anything unless Lareine asked him to, caught up in something and trusting him to do it right, but the small adjustments he could and would make to ensure that the potion was as efficacious as possible.

From there, he used the madam's private stair and climbed the levels of the house to Nocturne's room on the top floor. So far as any of the gentlemen in the lobby downstairs knew, he entered the madam's private rooms and stayed there, a fact that was gossiped about incessantly and never failed to reach the Dark Lord's ears. Pleased that his dour Potions Master, and new second, had found such a dear attachment, the Dark Lord increased his favor at every turn, now routinely including Lareine in his honor.

In quieter moments, Severus and Lareine were able to chuckle over it. In the rest, they simply took advantage of it with efficient silence.

Severus knocked on the plain white door, waited a few seconds, and then went in. Nocturne no longer received clients; when anyone asked for her, Lareine said she was ill, still suffering through recovery from the injuries received from Lucius Malfoy. Not wanting to press on dangerous ground, those few men quickly changed their requests to other girls.

Closing the door behind him, he turned back to the room.

And blinked.

Nocturne sat at her small white table, piles of paper stacked neatly around her. Thanatos lay on cushions on the floor, similar stacks around him.

And perched on a tall stool by the table was a house-elf, a book floating at a comfortable level in front of its face.

Seeing his confusion, Thanatos gave the slight twitch of his lips that doubled as his smile. And promptly went back to studying the parchment in his hand.

With a negligent wave, Nocturne renewed the soundproofing on the room. A moment later, the house-elf shimmered, and when the glamour dropped completely, he was looking at Ginny Weasley.

The last thread of the idea tucked neatly into place, and he actually smiled.

She shuddered delicately. "That's disturbing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Seeing you smile." She shrugged. "No offense. I don't think I've seen you smile since a Bludger knocked Harry off his broom while you were refereeing."

"It's not an accustomed expression, no." he agreed dryly, and Nocturne's lips twitched into that enigmatic smile. He could have pointed out that their own history of smiling had recently been greatly akin to his, but he didn't. They already saw the irony in it.

"A Birdie said you were summoned this morning," Nocturne said quietly, her pebble-washed voice provoking an uncomfortable reaction from his body. He hadn't touched her since seeing her as Hermione, but then, she hadn't touched him either, and some of their previous encounters had been by her initiation. Now, with the game laid so openly before the group, he didn't think either of them would be pursuing whatever it was.

"Yes." He pulled out one of the elegant white chairs and was about to sit down before he remembered his soiled robes. He shrugged out of them, Banishing them to the bathroom, and then sank into the seat. "Lavender Brown is dead."

"It's about time," snapped Ginny. "I was beginning to think she'd lost the damn poison."

Glancing in Severus' dark eyes, Nocturne shook her head. "No, the timing was optimal," she murmured, tracing the threads of thought back through his mind. It occurred to him that he should be affronted at how easily- not to mention how frequently- she rummaged through his thoughts, but then, it seemed silly to be offended now when she'd been doing it for months.

The tail of end of that thought must have escaped, because the smile widened slightly. Just for a moment, her violet eyes gleamed.

"I had an idea," he said carefully.

"Well, I should certainly hope so," Ginny replied tartly. "That is, after all, why we decided it was worth the risk to trust you."

"I'm afraid that's exactly what it comes down to." Three razor sharp gazes sliced at him. "How much are you willing to trust me?"

Ginny and Thanatos both turned to Nocturne.

Leaning over the stacks of paper, she reached out and cupped Severus' hand in her cheek, elfin eyes studying his. He laid the entire idea out before her in his mind, highlighting the areas that needed work, and then waited anxiously as she considered it from every angle. He could actually feel her thoughts inside his mind. Understand them, no, but he could feel the motion of her thoughts, something both disturbing and arousing.

She drew back from him abruptly, but her face smoothed into an expression that was almost a true smile. "That's brilliant," she breathed. "Absolutely brilliant."

Thanatos sat up, one arm resting comfortably on a cocked knee. He simply raised his eyebrows.

Nocturne leaned back in her chair, hands pressed together against our lips. "Congratulations," she said. "You just created our timeline."


	19. Boon

**Disclaimer: I own the words on the page but not the characters therein.**

_A/N: Whew, this turned out to be a long one! Please feed the review whore._

**Chapter Nineteen: Boon**

Astonishing, how silence could be so unnerving, and how quickly some people forgot that it should be.

For a full month, there had been nothing. No whispers, no overt actions, nothing to fuel the fire of unrest. For the first fortnight that Lavender Brown's body hung over the Ministry gates, the Ministry had been a hive of activity, every man and woman working slavishly to uncover any more information. Ishtari Clemens had been brought home, replaced in Russia by someone more suitable to overseeing full-scale battles as the mountains roared, and given no more than a day's rest before being sent to Ireland to investigate her betrothed.

But Blaise Zabini had gone to ground.

Michael Corner, making his first steps as the sworn-in President of the Wizarding States, focused on domestic issues, such as cleaning house. With the help of his shutterbug Birdies, he was on a crusade to eliminate corruption from the voting bodies. "Evil cannot make a position where good man stand true," he said in his first official address. Though he didn't specifically mention the Dark Lord or England, everyone listening heard his underlying meaning, and fully approved of his measures. The men and women who stood up to fill the empty seats were relative unknowns to the public, but possessed of such character that it wasn't difficult for Michael to convince the public to extend their trust in him to those he supported. But in all that, he didn't once speak directly of the Dark Lord.

Whatever Lee Jordan was doing in Scotland, speaking out wasn't part of it; Severus hadn't heard of him at all after being told of his general location.

Ginny stayed in the Syron's Lair, carefully concealed in her house-elf guise, but wherever Draco and Tonks were, they were keeping quiet.

In France, Gabrielle put her customary efficiency to rebuilding the wizarding Tribunal, and though she had respectfully declined the honor of becoming President, she had created for herself a nebulous position that nonetheless influenced everything else. Other than strengthening the borders and looking very carefully at anyone who travelled in, she didn't mention the Dark Lord either.

Unrest was slowly settling in India, where Severus knew they had someone but had no idea who, and while the Birdies in China continued putting up posters of Cho Chang, they didn't form any rallies or protests.

Russia screamed, but battle fields were something the Death Eaters were used to, and many were dispatched to defend the cause and the work done there. Severus could easily imagine the Birdies carefully orchestrating events, staying in the background so that no one would know, but while the rebels shrieked against the name of Voldemort, there was no Potter or Weasley to lead them, no Shacklebolt to seem so eminently reasonable.

Only the fact that he was paying such keen attention allowed him to see the quieter plots, the less pivotal locations that nonetheless had Birdies patiently working over the years. Portugal, which he'd overlooked because of the much more interesting things happening in Spain, had passed a law two years before refusing admittance to anyone with a Dark Mark. The Scandinavian countries, while not overtly banning the Dark Lord's minions, made it excruciatingly expensive for Death Eaters to live and work there. They called it a Dark Tax, justifying it with rather simple logic: those who follow the Dark Arts are extremely dangerous, therefore all money raised through this tax goes directly into strengthening the appropriate branches of law enforcement and hospitals.

The Netherlands allowed Death Eaters to live there, but only in the most low-lying areas at risk for flood. Conveniently, these same areas had faulty dikes even before they were helped along by spells. Canada didn't make an official fuss, but the government regularly overlooked the new national hobby of Snake Hunting. Well, overlooked except to make licenses for it, but nowhere in the paperwork for said licenses did it mention that the snakes were on the arms of the targets, and not the targets themselves. Through northern Africa and into the Middle East, a stunning number of Death Eaters had been found guilty of a wide variety of crimes, ranging from petty theft in the marketplace to the forbidden entry into high-ranking harems. That most of the men couldn't remember committing these crimes was a fact their imprisonment didn't allow to become common knowledge.

In Australia, many men had become rich by offering themselves as tour guides to newly stationed Death Eaters, promptly abandoning them in the Outback without their wands. The government said nothing, because so far as it knew, nothing was wrong. In every country in South America, there were suddenly a great many reasons not to allow amnesty or cooperation with the Dark Lord's overtures, as the Birdies there slowly rebuilt fragile economies, creating miracles the Dark Lord never could. In Japan, the juggernaut of invention and theory, Birdies created a solid, respectable firm with inspired ideas. He wondered sometimes how many of those ideas had come straight from Hermione and Luna. Regardless, they made a solid, well-regarded contribution to the society there, something the Dark Lord couldn't offer.

It occurred to Severus many times, as he watched the effects of the silence ripple out, that he would probably never know the names of all the people involved in their myriad plots. As far as he could logically assume, neither would any of the pieces. Each piece had recruited their own Birdies to augment the handful that had come from the original fighters- mostly students. And as the plots had rolled forward, those Birdies cautiously recruited more Birdies, none of them knowing the bigger picture but able to put their individual pieces into place. Most of them were people who had never fought before, never seen firsthand the hell the Dark Lord could create, but who loved their own country deeply enough that they would make very sure that such a thing could never happen in their own home.

It would, of course, eventually. Dark Lords rose and fell, but they were somehow an innate part of human nature. Darkness is a choice, Headmaster Dumbledore had argued once, not a predilection, but because it is a choice, it exists within everyone. The two men had debated that for years, returning to it in quiet times when such lofty ideas as the nature of man could be given due discourse. Dark Lords, or even Dark Ladies, would appear when there was a strong enough witch or wizard who made that choice, and who were able to sway others to their ideals and dominion.

Any sane, cautious man would have regarded this sudden silence with deep suspicion, and for the first fortnight, the Dark Lord did exactly that, driving his servants with unholy fervor. But, as time passed and nothing happened, he slowly reverted to his civilized mien. He ordered the bodies removed from the gates- many of them his own Death Eaters who had failed him in some fashion- and they were quietly burned. The curfew was lifted on the main streets.

It shouldn't have surprised Severus that the ones to remain suspicious of the silence were the mothers. Regardless of the cessation of restrictions, they kept their children close by or left them at home when they absolutely had to do shopping. Almost no children could be found in Diagon and Knockturn Alleys, not even with the Dark Lord's announcement that Hogwarts would be reopening for fall term. True, that was many months away, but there was no sudden spike at Quality Quidditch Supplies as children pooled their allowances to make the most of their remaining freedom, no mothers dragging resisting children through Flourish and Blotts trying to get ahead on the school purchases so they wouldn't have to hazard a crowded Diagon Alley in the week before term.

And then there were the street rats, children orphaned during or after the war with no place to go. The Dark Lord had demolished the wizarding orphanages, supposing them to be no better than the Muggle one in which he'd been raised. Some of the kinder shopkeepers fed them in exchange for light work, sweeping the shops out after hours, washing dishes, dusting, that sort of thing, but they were a veritable army in the shadows, hard-eyed and hollow-cheeked, filthy and dressed in rags.

With all the rest of the children off the streets, the horde of orphans was clearly visible, prime targets for unlicensed brothel keepers who specialize in forbidden flesh, for men and women who took particular and perverse delight in children. They hid as much as they could but they couldn't stay out of sight completely if they didn't want to starve, so the better gang leaders took the risks for the children they'd gathered under their names.

And then he walked into the Lair one morning before they were open for business and heard the laughter of children ringing through the entire house. Freshly bathed but still grey with the dirt that would only truly disappear with frequent, regular washing, children clad in nothing but towels or knotted sheets raced through the public rooms and up and down the stairs. The women of the Lair were dotted throughout, smiling and tending to the children nearest them.

Severus waded his way through the snot-gobblers, most of them so relieved at being clean and fed that they didn't even notice his black robes, and made his way up to Nocturne's room.

It was empty.

One eyebrow arching severely, he closed and locked the door and swam back downstairs. He recognized the silver hair and giddy laugh of the prostitute Luna, whom he'd met once before, and politely bowed as deeply as the children coming up to his waist would allow. "Where is the madam?" he inquired.

"She's down in the basement," she giggled, bouncing a five year old on her hip until the girl shrieked with laughter. "She's organizing the house-elves."

As if the Lair's elves needed organizing. He had to bite his tongue several times on his way down to keep from snapping at the children in his way, but when he saw the bruises and old scars, the bones pressing sharply against the skin, the cautious way the older ones looked around them like they thought it might be a trap or a dream…Well. Severus had never had a problem terrorizing students, but he couldn't bring himself to vent his temper on these damaged children. Not yet, at any rate. So for the moment, he waded through them with grim patience, ushering them out of his way with gentle hands and a quiet voice, until he reached the basement.

The Syron's Lair extended as far below ground as it did above. The first understory held the kitchen and laundry, the small infirmary, and the workshops where some of the girls liked to put together their own costumes or practice their dances. Beneath that were the storage rooms and elves' quarters, and the third understory was a massive open basement. Once upon a time, the basement was connected to a massive series of underground tunnels used by wizardkind to get around London when it wasn't safe to blend with Muggles in the streets. Half the tunnels had collapsed over the centuries, no one bothering to repair them, and the door into the tunnels had been bricked off in the basement of the Lair.

Now, the empty space was entirely filled with rows and rows of transfigured cots. At one end, he could see Nocturne, Toy, and Emerald busily transfiguring more cots, completing the rows. Behind them came their bodyguards, laying blankets over the new beds and transfiguring small pillows out of puffs of cotton. Lareine stood over a clutch of healers; two of them belonged to the House, but the other three wore the lime green robes of St. Mungo's healers. They inspected each child, fixing small hurts and taking notes on what was needed for all the children so far as nutrition went. Those with graver injuries or illnesses were taken up to the infirmary, by now overflowing with young patients.

His sharp eyes caught the glint of a gold and crimson pin on one of the elves, and he nearly snorted at the Gryffindor crest being used to fasten one shoulder of the terry cloth toga that was the uniform of all the Lair's house-elves. At least he knew how to find Ginny Weasley if he needed her.

Lareine finally noticed him in the chaos. Murmuring something to one of the Lair's healers, she excused herself and progressed slowly towards him, stopping every few feet to smile at one of the children and give a comforting word.

"I thought the contraceptive was supposed to prevent being overrun by children," he greeted dryly.

She gave him a dazzling smile, more genuinely happy than he could ever remember seeing her. "We're trying to get it all done before the Lair opens," she told him with a laugh. "By that point, we need to have all of them down here, or tucked into the rooms of girls not working today."

"Yes, I suppose it would be a bit of a turn-off to have men surrounded by the very things they come here to escape."

She tucked her arm through his and they simply stood in the center of the cacophony and watched. One of the bodyguards made a little boy shriek with laughter when he lifted him up over his head and spun in place. The boy spread his arms wide like he was flying. One of the other prostitutes wrapped brightly colored strips of cloth over the hard splint on an older girl's leg, making a rainbow pattern all the way down the device meant to straighten out the badly twisted limb.

A little girl, no more than five, threw her arms around Nocturne's leg in a tight hug. The woman's violet eyes widened hugely and she stared down at the child, her arms held out awkwardly at her sides. After a moment, she reached down and gingerly patted the lank brown hair. Smirking, Thanatos knelt down beside the girl and opened his arms. With a grin that lit up her too-thin face, the girl threw herself against him and he closed his arms in a tight hug, standing and spinning while still holding her. She giggled and nestled against his neck, her skinny arms wrapped around him so tight it seemed she'd never let go. Nocturne watched with tolerant amusement.

The feel of Lareine's other hand coming to rest on his arm brought his attention back down to her. "I know it's a lot to ask, but during these next few weeks, when everything is so quiet, would you be willing to help us make some of the potions for the children? They're very badly malnourished."

"I think I can manage that," he replied quietly. He was a bastard, but not a total one, and very few knew better than he how much a person's life was written by their childhood. He almost asked what she meant to do with them 'after' but didn't. After still seemed like too much to hope for. Better to focus on the present, on what could be done right now.

He returned three days later with half of his house-elves in tow, bearing crate after crate of potions. The nutrition potions were easily made, so he'd taught his elves. Once they'd gotten over the fear that they'd be punished for being in his lab, they proved quite apt at it, each managing several cauldrons at once. Once the crates were safely delivered to the packed infirmary, he retreated up to Nocturne's room, where he felt fairly sure there would be no children.

Nocturne was there, thankfully not surrounded by spawn, but Thanatos was not. He kissed her cheek in greeting, pretending not to notice her startled look, and sat down at the table beside her. A parade of small feet pounded past her door, the spells allowing sounds in but not out, and she rolled her eyes.

"Not fond of children?" he asked, in a voice that could have been innocent had it been from some other man.

"I was an only child," she muttered, "and I'm frankly grateful." She scowled at his smirk. "I could barely talk with people my age; what the hell am I supposed to say to creatures who can't even form full sentences yet?"

"And yet you crusaded for house-elves' freedom."

"House-elves have surprisingly intelligent things to say once you unravel the grammar," she replied pensively. "They see a lot more than anyone gives them credit for."

"Is that the reason for Miss Weasley's current appearance?"

"One of them. It's also a convenient way to keep her close by, and we wouldn't have a building left if she tried to pose as one of the girls. Neither she nor Draco share particularly well."

He chose not to comment on that. "He's convinced that the silence means he's won," he reported quietly. "He still wants to find the troublemakers and bring them to heel, but he thinks you've given up."

"Then the plan is working." She tapped the nib of her quill against a scrap sheet of parchment, a small pool of ink forming. "We should probably extend that by a few weeks."

"Any particular reason?"

She made a face. "Afters." When he simply waited for her to continue, she sighed and set the quill at a precise perpendicular on the top of the page. "Now that we've got a definitive plan, there are a lot of plans for afters cropping up."

"You don't approve."

"It's easier for them," she said obliquely.

Severus settled back in the chair with the air of a man who has nothing more to do with his time than listen to an interesting story.

She swore at him but followed suit. "The ones making plans for afters are the ones who always dreamed of it anyway," she explained. "The minor pieces, the pawns, and the Birdies…they always expected we'd win, just like they expected it last time. Because good is supposed to triumph over evil. Or, perhaps, they simply needed to believe in an after in order to do what needed to be done. For them, it was always about the after. We'd live in a world without the Dark Lord, where everything would be bunnies and sunshine and every rainbow would have a pot of gold."

He snorted.

"Well, isn't that the world Dumbledore always painted? Isn't that what he wanted us to believe because he thought we were too young to know the truth? Because he didn't want Harry to know the truth?" When he acknowledged the point, she continued. "For the rest of us, after just seemed like a cruel joke. The pawns and the Birdies…they'd have no problem adjusting to an after, really, because while essential, they were still small pieces. One of the reasons we recruited the people we did was because they were already in possession of certain talents we found useful; when this is done, win or lose, they can resume their lives with that talent."

"But you?"

For just a moment, she dropped the glamour and he saw again the scars ravaging her throat, saw the hard cast to her cinnamon brown eyes. He didn't flinch away; he had scars older than she was, and never forgot them. "Ever since I joined the wizarding world, my life has been a series of battles," she said harshly, her voice rougher than usual. "Because I was a friend of Harry Potter, because I was a Muggle-born who dared to be smarter and better than the purebloods, because my curiosity wouldn't let me simply accept my new world, but wanted to understand it. They sheltered us in school as much as they could but it didn't change the base fact that almost everything we did was targeted at keeping Harry alive against Tom. And then, _everything_ we did was targeted at keeping Harry alive. Because he was our weapon. He was our shield. He was the Chosen One, the prophesied Hero, the one who could defeat the Dark Lord.

"And it was rubbish, all of it. Prophecies are riddles, they'll either happen or they won't, and never in the way you expect. Harry was a talented wizard but he didn't have extraordinary powers. What he had was an unusual way of looking at things. What he had was a sense for people's strengths, and he learned how to use them. DA did that; pushing him into a leadership position taught him how to use people, how to complement strengths and balance weaknesses. It wasn't a power, it was a skill, and that got us so much farther than placing stock in him as the Chosen One."

"But this is all before," he noted calmly.

"But the before defines the after, does it not?" she retorted. "I'm a whore, and- I'll say it if you won't- a damn good one. I'm in a profession that goes against everything I ever believed in because it was necessary. So what do I do after? When I don't have to be a whore anymore, what do I become? A researcher who can't look at something except to see how it can be used or turned into a weapon? An Arithmancer who wouldn't be able to publish because I've almost forgotten how to resolve equations without Dark inflection? A teacher who would never have patience for students who couldn't keep up, but also one who couldn't teach down to the appropriate level? With the woman I've become, what do I do after? What do Ginny and Draco do after? What does Thanatos do after? With every skill we've ever possessed put towards this savage game, what do we do when the game is gone?"

"You and Thanatos kept your glamours on during the meeting," he said, and wasn't sure if it was a non-sequiter or not.

"I'm a whore," she repeated dryly. "A lot of my information? Comes from being a whore. A lot of my ability to manipulate people? Comes from being a whore. Can you reconcile that with Hermione Granger?" She didn't even wait for him to shake his head. "We do what we have to do. That doesn't mean it sits easy with everyone. Tonks still gets queasy when we choose to sacrifice a piece. She'll agree to it, reluctantly, because she knows it's the most efficient move to make, but she racks herself with guilt over it. She remembers sweet little Hermione and she can't listen to me talk about the information I acquired while fucking Lucius Malfoy. The glamour makes it easier for her. Not just her," she corrected absently. "There are others. It's a lot easier to hear that from Nocturne than from Hermione, as though Nocturne will just fade with the after and sweet little Hermione will be back."

"And Thanatos?"

"You know the main players of the game, or at least the candidates for them," she told him almost gently. "Thanatos had stood by me for years, hearing and seeing what clients do to me, knowing how much it hurts, raging every time one of them touches me but knowing he has to let it happen. Sometimes…well, Thanatos is the Lair bodyguard. That's his job. Sometimes if you wear the mask long enough, you start to forget the person you were without it. And sometimes, that makes it easier. As Thanatos, he can do things, suffer through things, he never would have survived before. And when this is done, he'll have to understand who he is now that Thanatos is such a significant part of him. The masks… they're not just for the benefit of the others."

She reached out and lightly touched his hand, laying her fingers atop his, as much comfort as she could bear to seek. "And even while the others look to their personal afters, what kind of an after are we creating? Even if they step up into the void, how good can we possibly be at peace when we've been defined by war? What if it really is just revenge, or us expanding on the only thing we've ever known how to do?"

He lifted one finger and brushed it against hers, knowing more than that would either piss her off or make her spook. Right now, she was something in between Nocturne and Hermione, and though he wouldn't say it to her, this was probably the woman she'd be in whatever after there was. "The order is a mask," he told her. "Darkness corrupts. It doesn't matter that he's reopening schools or clearing the Darker aspects back into the cellars and private homes. So long as such things are openly practiced, the order- or the appearance of it- will collapse, because Darkness is incapable of maintaining anything productive. And when something happens even the least out of line with what he wants, the masks slip. You know that; we've taken advantage of it. Whatever comes after will not be perfect, but it has the chance to be better."

"The chance to be better," she repeated softly. "Yes. The chance. Not the guarantee."

"And after…" He shrugged elegantly. "After, you can decide who you want to be. Whether it's a retired Nocturne, a mature Hermione, or an amalgam of everything that's survived the war and the board. No one on the board will find their after as the child they once were."

"Luna might," she countered, a gleam of dark humor in her eyes.

"But even she is slightly more grounded, is she not?"

"Very slightly."

"What kind of man will I be in the after?" he asked her, holding up one hand to forestall whatever answer she may have made. "I have no idea. And, if I'm being honest, that unsettles me. But I'm willing to find out. Not everyone will be better for the game, but I think…I believe, that I have been improved by the experience."

She didn't respond, her violet eyes searching his face, but after a moment, her fingers laced hesitantly through his.

After two full months of silence, Severus Snape made an appointment to see the Dark Lord. He saw him regularly anyway, giving reports and receiving orders, but actually making an appointment was guaranteed to pique the tyrant's curiosity.

As he waited in the chamber, making teasing small talk with Miss Sigurdson, he wondered idly what it must be like to be so convinced of your own superiority that you could actually interpret this nerve-fraying silence as a victory. Any man who could at least acknowledge the possibility of defeat wouldn't trust the stillness, wouldn't place any security in the sudden disappearances- at least not when those disappearances didn't lead directly to his cells. But the Dark Lord was all ease and benevolence now, absolutely convinced that he had once again rightly triumphed over fools and idiots.

Miss Clemens emerged from the office, raised her eyebrows, and gave him a short curtsey as befitted his rank as their Master's lieutenant. Finally called back from Ireland because of the silence, she was looking forward to simply resting for a time, and he could see the exhaustion written into her strong, exotic features. Also written there was easily identified confusion; whatever her Master thought, Miss Clemens didn't trust the sudden acquiescence of her betrothed and his cohorts. She was not, however, stupid enough to mention this to her Master, which explained a great deal of why she was able to rise to the Inner Circle as so few females had before her.

He stepped away from the desk to allow her a moment of conversation with the secretary; the two women seemed to be friends, or at least friendly, and he wondered if this, too, was part of Mister Zabini's plans for after.

"Lord Snape?" Ingrid offered after the other woman's departure. "You could probably go in now."

"Thank you, Miss Sigurdson." He offered her a deep bow that had her dimples showing and walked into the Dark Lord's mahogany and burgundy office. He stepped over Nagini, managing to make the gesture as graceful as possible, and knelt before the solid desk. "My Lord."

"Severus," Voldemort greeted expansively. "Rise, my loyal Severus, and sit." Once the man had done so, the despot studied him thoughtfully. "I was surprised when Ingrid told me of your appointment. You know you need no such thing, not with all the faithful service you have given me."

"I am grateful, my Lord, but as this was not strictly related to my work for you, I thought it best to give it a separate time," he replied humbly.

"Then what is it you wish to speak of?"

"My Lord, I had thought to ask after the boon with which you honored me."

The vermillion eyes narrowed fiercely, and it was all Severus could do to keep an appropriately cautious expression on his face. He'd always known that calling in that boon would be tantamount to suicide, even when he'd come up with this plan, but plots were largely about gambles. If he'd bought as much favor as he thought these past few months, he would survive long enough to actually name his desire. Once he could define it, he was fairly sure he'd be safe.

Fairly sure.

But then, if he'd been entirely sure, it wouldn't have been a gamble, would it?

"And what do you seek?" the Dark Lord asked dangerously.

"My dear Lareine and I wish to honor you, Lord, with a celebration at the Lair. Your might has triumphed over adversity, safeguarding your awesome rule, and that is worthy of celebration." Realizing he may be laying it on a bit thick, he backed off slightly. "And I wish to thank you personally, Lord. Were it not for your wisdom, I should never have realized what a treasure was to be found in Lareine."

The thin lips curved in an approximation of a smile that hideously transformed the reptilian face. "Ah, my Severus. It pleases me greatly to grant this boon, and to know that at last you are enjoying your just reward. By all means, plan your celebration. I will be certain to attend."

"Thank you, Lord," Severus answered, inserting a judicious amount of awe and gratitude into his rich voice. "You honor me past imagining."

"And will continue to do so, so long as your service remains."

Understanding the warning, Severus rose from his chair and knelt again. "All my life, Lord."

"Then go, Severus. Begin your arrangements."

Rising, he gave a deep bow and exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Miss Sigurdson watched him curiously from her desk, long knitting needles clacking sedately as she worked on a lavender and navy scarf. "It seems, Miss Sigurdson, that we are to have a fête," he said lightly, and she smiled. "I shall keep you apprised of the details."

"I'll keep the date open in his schedule," she promised, the dimples appearing again.

As he walked out of the Ministry, Severus reflected that, if he were the type of man to do such a thing, he might even be whistling.

"I'm doing what?"

Severus smirked at Lareine's dangerous expression. "_We_ are hosting a celebration for the Dark Lord, in two weeks if we can manage it."

"Severus, it's my job to be able to do these things on short notice, but you are going to explain this."

Nocturne's lips twitched and she passed her employer a fresh sheet of parchment. "It's part of the plan," she said quietly. "And trust me, you don't want to know any more than that."

Scowling, the madam dipped her quill in the inkwell and positioned herself comfortably to take notes. "How soon after this party do I need to close up shop and get my girls the hell out of the country?"

"Can you manage it that night? The Lair's final fête?"

Lareine paled as she stared at the saturnine man seated across the table from her. "That's the night?" she whispered. "That's the end?"

"That's the end."

"Well." She took a deep breath. "Well." Shaking her head, she set the quill to parchment. "Then we'd best make this an evening to go down in history, yes?"

Not bothering to knock, a house-elf ducked into the room and quickly shucked its glamour. Ginny gave them all a slightly disgusted look. "If I hear Mayhem coo over one more child, your house is going to be short a dominant," she warned, plopping down in the fourth chair.

"You used to like children," Nocturne commented mildly, a wicked gleam in her lavender eyes.

"I used to have the potential to have them," her friend snapped, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "And I still like them. But a woman who regularly employs whips, chains, and spankings should not be dithering over a child. It's like listening to Bellatrix's baby-talk. It's saccharine, disturbing, and frankly unnecessary. Problem, Snape?"

He shook his head, one eyebrow still arched with amusement. "Just trying to determine which parent you're taking after at the moment."

"Parents-schmarents, _Professor_, I learned from the best."

He inclined his head to acknowledge the point.

"Two weeks," mused Lareine. "Will that give everyone else time to get in place?"

"They already are," Ginny answered. "As long as we were running silent, it seemed smart to keep moving. As soon as we let the words fly, they'll be ready."

"Then we need a theme. Nothing gaudy, I hope, Severus?"

"I was thinking black and white," he replied innocently. "Perhaps a chess theme?"

All three women choked.

He smiled blandly into his tea.

They spent the next several hours planning the party down to every detail, and for a moment, Severus could understand why Lucius enjoyed being the social planner so much. Not that Severus would ever enjoy planning parties- nor intended to have them- but the control…yes, that much control would definitely have appealed to his old friend. This wasn't quite a party, though, more of a carefully orchestrated battlefield where the clothing was finer.

As a Potions Master, spy, and educator, he'd always prided himself on his eye for detail. He was accustomed to being the most detail-oriented person in the room, unless Minerva McGonagall was there to share the title. These women made him work to keep up.

Because it wasn't just the party. For every moment of the actual celebration, there was a timetable for the elves downstairs, a timetable for those going after Nagini, a timetable for the Dark Lord…and then it spiraled out. There was how to best take advantage of the chaos, how best to orchestrate the escape of the Lair denizens, how to put all of their Birdies to optimal use. Then came the timetables for the afters, all the things the other pieces had been working on while the king, queen, and rooks- and the newest bishop- focused on the last bit of the before.

Before the evening was done, they'd laid out the blueprints for a party that would never be forgotten, for many reasons. Despite the minimal amount of time to prepare, Lareine was determined to outdo any other celebration of her career. While Severus, Nocturne, and Ginny planned the simultaneous events, she created pages of costume sketches for all of her girls, as well as the bodyguards. While they debated the precise timing, she drew quick views of each of the main rooms, incomprehensible arrows and notes obscuring the hasty lines. While they carefully worded the itinerary that would be passed on to the Dark Lord, she wrote out the menu and decided which china to use.

In fact, the only thing she was having trouble deciding was how to take care of her girls once all hell broke loose.

Nocturne reached across and laid a hand on her arm, bringing the madam's startled attention to her. Lareine knew very well that this young woman did not enjoy touching people, or being touched. "Gabrielle has secured a rather impressive new house for you on the outskirts of Paris," she said quietly. "Large enough for all the girls and then some. She and Luna are working on the international Portkeys now, enough for everyone."

Tears filled Lareine's eyes and choked her throat.

"You took very good care of me," the young woman continued gently. "And you were a great help to all of us. We don't forget that."

Still unable to speak, Lareine nodded and patted Nocturne's hand.

Discomfited by the display, Ginny looked curiously at the Potions Master. "Were you intending to remain in England afterwards?"

"Not particularly," he replied. "It doesn't seem the most prudent course of action."

"If you were to sign your country house over to Pansy, we could start relocating the children before the party. She can convert it into an orphanage when she gets the chance. Just a thought."

Listening to the too-casual tone of voice, he understood that it was far more than a thought. It was a relief to see that small kindness, however deeply buried, that small sign of Molly. But he didn't comment on it; if she needed to be cold to get the job done, he could understand that.

"A sensible arrangement," he agreed politely. "I'll set my elves to it at once. And perhaps Miss Delacour could assign someone to seek out an appropriate residence for a research-minded Potions Master?"

"France, Severus?"

"It seems as likely a place as any."

Nocturne quirked a delicate eyebrow.

"And," he continued slowly, measuring her look, "regardless of the side I'm on, the Dark Mark will always stain my skin. There are no longer many places where such a brand will go unremarked."

"I'll let Gabrielle know," she said quietly. "I'm sure she'll be able to locate something suitable."

"Is that everything?" Ginny asked briskly. "Because we've got a great deal to do and not much time to do it in."

"I believe that's all for now," Lareine answered. "I'll need your help with the elves, Miss Weasley; if I can leave explanations and orders to you, that will let me focus on the abovestairs aspects."

The two women walked out of the room, Ginny's glamour shimmering back into place just before the door opened.

Severus stood as well. If he was going to be moving out of the country in a fortnight, he had a great deal to do. Especially if his house was soon to be overrun by an army of street rats. Perhaps Lareine would allow him to set up a cot in her chambers…

Nocturne walked him to the door. Now that she no longer had to dress for clients, she'd taken to wearing solid robes in dark, flattering colors, as far from the whimsical sheers and ornaments of the play toy as it was possible to get. "I'll let Pansy and Luna know to expect a visit," she told him, leaning against the wall beside the closed door. "You can arrange the details of the house through them. Gabrielle will get you your new address as soon as she finds something."

He nodded absently, still tallying a list in his mind of what he needed to get done over the next two weeks.

"Severus-"

He looked at her sharply. "That's the first time you've said my name," he noted, and was both shocked and gratified by the tiniest hint of a flush spreading across her alabaster cheeks.

"Yes, well, see if I do it again, if that's going to be your response."

"What were you going to say?"

Her violet eyes flicked away from him. "Don't screw up. We may not get another chance."

Before he was quite sure what he was doing, he leaned down and kissed her softly. After a moment's shocked hesitation, she melted against him. Both were breathless when the embrace ended, their eyes wide as they stared at each other.

He straightened and cleared his throat. "I'll do my best."

She rolled her eyes and pushed him out the door.

Ingrid's face lit up when she saw the itinerary for the celebration. "A chess theme? How clever!" Her blue eyes danced with impish good humor.

Leaning against the desk, Severus simply nodded. "The invitations will advise the other attendees to limit their wardrobe to black and white. The Dark Lord, of course, is welcome to dress as he pleases."

Setting the top sheet on her desk, she didn't even glance at the others before folding and Shrinking them. She tucked them into the gold oval locket around her neck. "I'll copy this and pass it along once he's out of her meeting," she told him.

"One other thing, Miss Sigurdson."

"My Lord?"

"My last visit, I believe you complained about the dry weather recently?"

She gave him a curious look but nodded for the benefit of the pair of men walking into the room. "It's been making my skin as dry as Nagini's when she's shedding," she confided loudly.

He handed her a delicate white and gold container, perhaps double the size of her fist. "I took the liberty of preparing a hand cream for you," he announced. "It will eliminate that snake-like feeling. Just be careful when applying it before eating."

She gave him a bright smile, much to the consternation of the young Death Eaters hovering by the door. "Thank you! I'll be sure to use it when it's most important."

He bowed to her and left the room, his black robes billowing out around him with every step.

The night before the celebration, Severus walked into the Lair for the last time, a small overnight bag in one hand. Ostensibly, he was there to assist Lareine in overseeing the final preparations. Realistically, if he chanced to get in her way, he'd probably end up draped as one of the decorations. The woman was peculiarly single-minded when she was focused on a task.

All of his possessions were now en route to a house in the Loire Valley in the company of half of his house-elves. They'd packed the house efficiently, forwarding it to the address provided him by Gabrielle Delacour. As the final transaction of the next business day, the goblins would be transferring the entirety of his vault to a new vault in their Paris branch, too late for anyone to find out and question it.

The other half of his elves had cautiously requested to stay with the house. As they'd gotten rooms cleared, children had invaded, and some of the creatures had become fascinated with the challenge of running an orphanage. When he checked with Pansy, she not only approved but sent some of her own elves to augment those caring for the children. Approximately a third of the children- mostly the youngest ones- had been moved to his house, the rest sent up to Scotland and Lee Jordan.

Before retiring for the night in the empty infirmary, Severus made a final trip up the flights of stairs to Nocturne's room. As with the rest of the girls' rooms, it was mostly empty now but for the bed and a small bag just barely large enough to hold toiletries and a change of clothing. Her costume for the gala hung on a hook on the wall, an enveloping black cloak hanging beside them. She and Thanatos sat on the bed, candles floating in a ring overhead, with a wide board laid out as a table across the blankets.

He stood at the edge of the bed and tried to determine what game they were playing and quickly gave up. They were wizarding cards, he could see that, but it was not a variation of Exploding Snap, and had at least four decks involved. Five, he decided a moment later. Nocturne held two decks backed in blue, Thanatos two backed in red, but another deck- backed in black- stood off to one side.

Each had built a fort from a full deck of cards, the strongest wall facing their opponent, and had what he could only guess to be inner defenses scattered behind the walls. With the second deck in their hands, they either attacked the other fort or supplemented their own. That much he could mostly follow. They played silently though, all communication taking place in quick glances and brief flickers of expression, so he had no idea what determined whether a defense held or fell, or what allowed them to draw a card from the black deck, or what those cards meant.

He watched them for nearly an hour, until Thanatos' fort fell and the blue-backed cards stormed the inner tower. The queen of hearts, until then guarded by the tower, shrieked as the enemy cards fell upon her. Thanatos shook his head, bowing in defeat, and began gathering the cards back into their separate decks.

Nocturne glanced up at Severus and raised an eyebrow.

"Learned the strategy so you had to use it somewhere?"

"Something like that. It was a useful tool in the beginning."

He handed her a small, wrapped package. "This was entrusted to me some years ago. I now return it you. Good night," he said to both of them. Nocturne echoed it absently, Thanatos nodding in reply, and he left them alone in the room.

She turned the package over several times before shrugging and tugging at the white ribbon. It fell away into her lap, a shimmering satin pool, and she carefully slit the black paper with her wand. She'd never been one to rip into gifts anyway, but the years had turned her naturally neat behavior into caution. When the paper was precisely folded on the makeshift table, she lifted the lid of a plain white cardboard box.

Nestled on a bed of white cotton batting was her Time Turner on its long gold chain. She lifted it out reverently, the silver sand trickling through the hourglass embedded in the center.

Thanatos leaned forward and pulled out the narrow, curling strip of paper, smoothing it out against the wood. His lips twitching in the closest he'd come to a smile in a very long time, he handed it over to his companion.

She read it and smirked.

_"Use it well."_


	20. The Thirteenth Hour

**Disclaimer: Yada yada legal yada don't own yada yada yada.**

_A/N: But wait, there's more! Stick around after this for (drumroll, please) the FINAL CHAPTER! And, of course, please leave a review!_

**Chapter Twenty: The Thirteenth Hour**

As the host of the gala, Severus greeted each new arrival at the door, Lareine resplendent on his arm. The difference in his current appearance when contrasted with his heyday as the billowing bat was striking, even to those who hadn't had the dubious fortune to be his students. His fine black hair, clean and only slightly greasy, was tightly braided back into a tail partway down his back, and a neatly trimmed goatee sensuously framed his mouth. Silver trimmed black velvet robes, a little too warm for the number of people in the building but suitably regal, hung open over an immaculately tailored black suit, black embroidery twining across the fabric in elegant knots. Even the stiff collar and cuffs barely visible beyond his suit were deepest black. The only departure from this was the slender white bishop hanging from a silken black cord around his neck.

At his side, Lareine dazzled with smiles and deep curtseys, every inch the poised, gracious hostess. And, if rumors could be believed, the future wife of the Master's lieutenant. For that reason, as much as her beauty and her management of the Lair, every man walking through the door gave her extra courtesy, but not so much as to pique the jealousy of the man on her right. Her fading blonde hair swept around her face in a tumble of curls restrained by diamond studded combs, every feature artfully enhanced with cosmetics- but never crossing the line into garishness. A glittering white gown draped low across the swell of her breasts, displayed invitingly in a corset that defined every curve. The fabric shimmered with every motion, reflecting teasing waves of light. White satin gloves concealed her arms nearly up to the shoulder, thin gold bracelets singing quietly at her left wrist. Around her neck, a black pawn hung on a thin gold chain.

Once the last Death Eater was greeted and ushered into the dining room, the host and hostess remained by the door for a moment to take a deep breath. White and black drapes, tastefully accented with ropes of sparkling clear or black glass, hung from the ceiling to conceal the walls. Sheer curtains veiled the doorways, whispering against those who passed through them.

Severus cast another eye about as they entered the vast dining room. Here the concealing drapes were deep silver, sheeting down the walls like mercury waterfalls. Even the ceiling was coated in silver, the fabric angling out a foot or so from the tops of the walls to the base of the crystal chandelier, creating the illusion of being in a large, luxurious tent. The place settings were silver as well, the heavy goblets transfigured into open chess pieces; the superior ranks held wine, the pawns chilled water with impossibly thin slices of lemon floating on the surface. Black satin covered the table and hung nearly to the floor, a sheer white confection angling across for effect.

The deceptively simple decorations made the true ornaments shine: the girls of the Lair.

Each person was clad in a single color, the women and their guards in opposite colors. Every single one wore a chess piece on a chain around their neck; this was not merely a reflection of the theme, but also their way to safety. Lareine had told the girls she was taking them to Paris for a time to perform renovations on the house; once they got there, she'd tell them the truth, or at least carefully chosen portions of it. The girls ringed the table, sprawling on velvet cushions with crystal glasses full of sparkling wine. They gently teased the men, offering hints and promises, keeping the gathering in high spirits. Their guards, for once fully part of the evening, made another ring immediately behind them.

Nocturne sat among them, her sheer black gown making her alabaster skin glow. An elegantly embroidered corset and layers of sheer skirts made some pretense at modesty, the white queen half-concealed in the hollow between her breasts. Onyx combs held her blue-black curls back from her face, her violet eyes half-lidded with amusement as she watched everything happening around her. Thanatos sat close behind her, clad in flowing white trousers, boots, and the black king. A silver knife hilt gleamed from the white sash around his waist, his platinum blond hair flowing free down his back.

And at the head of the table, Voldemort sat in a heavy silver throne decorated in false onyx and opal, transfigured for the night from glass. Like leprechaun gold, the spells would fade in time, remaining just long enough for the gala. Emerald robes draped elegantly about his ultra-thin frame, a verdant blaze of color in the midst of the room. He stood at the entrance of Severus and Lareine, regarding them with a smile that could only be described as fond.

One way or the other, Severus was fervently grateful he'd never have to see that smile again after this night. By midnight, at least one of them would be dead.

With Severus and Lareine seated at the Dark Lord's side, the house-elves sent up the first course. Severus played a witty host, ably aided by Lareine, to keep the atmosphere light and entertaining. Dwelling on new galleries of art, concerts, recent or classic publications, and various performances at the theatre, he related- and often skewered- the offerings of the artistic community. The conversation stayed lively as the meal progressed, the laughter of the girls surrounding them egging on those who perhaps wouldn't have contributed otherwise. When a young redhead gave him a sweet smile, even the younger Goyle managed to make a sensible statement about the opera he'd seen regarding the founding of Hogwarts.

That turned the conversation to the school, a careful line to walk, but one Severus navigated with ease. Miss Sigurdson had told him much of the preliminary planning, supplementing what the Dark Lord told him directly, so he subtly guided the men in tossing about ideas for what to include in the curriculum. Voldemort actually laughed when Severus brought Lareine's hand to his lips and asked if she would be interesting in teaching the health section to the fifth years.

Before the dessert and coffee courses, the girls of the Lair put on an entertainment of music and dance. Nocturne played the piano, sprightly songs well suited to the celebratory atmosphere, providing accompaniment to her fellows as they sang or danced. There were others who played as well, harps and flutes and violins, and even a few who played bodhran. There were women whose voices were so high and clear it sent shivers down the spine, and others whose voices were so husky and smooth they affected quite a different area.

Severus waited until another young woman had taken Nocturne's place at the piano, Nocturne and Thanatos joining the group easing out the door into the main house. The rest of them would be changing into their dancing costumes, ostensibly with the help of the other two.

"My Lord," Severus murmured, barely loud enough for Voldemort to hear him over the music, "will you grant me leave to check on the kitchens? I wish to make sure all is ready for the rest of the evening."

"I am sure your excellent lady has everything well in hand, but you would not be my Potions Master if you were not exact in all things." The reptilian man laid a hand carelessly on Severus' shoulder. "Go then, check on your arrangements, and come quickly back."

He bowed deeply, nodding to Lareine, and made a discrete exit. He made his way downstairs, to the levels no mere patron ever saw, but continued past the kitchens and the costume rooms, past the storage level, and down into the basement. Empty now of all the children's cots, it was a vast, empty space, but for two shadows against one wall.

Tucking her hair carefully into the hood of her cloak, Nocturne arched an eyebrow at him. "Seeing us off?"

"If you have no objection," he returned dryly. "I was surprised, however, when Miss Weasley informed me you were down here."

"Did you expect us to walk out the front door?"

"No, but I had thought a service entrance."

Shaking her head, the young woman fastened the cloak securely, checking to make sure none of her costume could be seen. "Many of the tunnels that run under London are collapsed, but the most essential ones were built with too many preservation spells to fall so easily. The one leading from Diagon Alley to directly under the Ministry is still open; we've checked it several times since arriving. It's the fastest- and safest- way to get there."

He held out a hand to Thanatos, who looked at it for a moment before grasping it firmly. "Good luck, both of you, and be careful."

Pulling the hoods low over their faces, the pair turned towards the solid brick wall. Thanatos pulled his wand and tapped a complicated pattern on the bricks. After a moment, he repeated it, then repeated it a third time. With a grating whine that echoed unnervingly in the empty room, the bricks hinged away into an elaborate archway into a black void. Lighting the tips of their wands barely illuminated the few feet in front of them; a thick layer of dust and cobwebs coated what little could be seen.

Severus watched them until the bricks swung back into place. "Be careful, Hermione," he whispered.

After several deep breaths, he returned to the party upstairs, resisting the urge to check the silver watch in his pocket.

Nocturne and Thanatos traversed the ancient tunnels in their customary silence, ignoring the rats the scurried back into hiding from the light. Thanatos counted the doorways, each marked in faded white paint; a violent splash of red marked those that were unusable. Three times they passed the collapsed entrances to other tunnels, but even the rubble stayed out of this main passage, piled up against an invisible force spelled into the creation of the catacombs. Many of the entrances were brick, but the tunnel itself was made of stained Preseli Bluestone. Though the framework had been extended hugely over the centuries, the tunnels themselves had existed from ancient times, crafted by magic at a time when technology could not go so far below ground.

After perhaps two miles, they reached an archway that once would have been far grander than any other, formerly gleaming black marble veined in silver. Thanatos passed a careful hand over the cracked and pitted marble, his fingers seeking out the one depression not made by time and accident. Finally finding it, he set the tip of his wand in the slight dip and traced a sequence of runes through the dust on the stone. The marble shuddered and a seam appeared down the center, hinging open at the sides to grant them entry.

Into the Department of Mysteries.

They stepped in and paused, waiting for the door to close behind them, and memorized the location and appearance. It didn't look like an archway on this side of it. It didn't look like much of anything at all, truly, just a stretch of wall like any other. Frowning, Thanatos pressed his wand against the wall on either side of the entry, burning the outline of a phoenix no bigger than a Knut.

Reaching into her cloak, Nocturne pulled the long chain of the Time Turner from her corset, undoing the pin that kept the pendant fastened to the fabric. While she carefully turned it twice, he crafted an additional layer to their glamours. Their faces were bland now, unremarkable, and combined with their black robes and cloaks gave them impression of being lowly Death Eaters, far too lowly to be invited to a celebration such as the one their Master and betters currently enjoyed. When all was in place, she cast the chain about their necks and let the Time Turner fly.

When the world steadied, they were in the same location, the hallway just as dark as it had been before. Nocturne glanced at the wall and raised an eyebrow at her companion.

He studied it for a moment, then grimaced. Two hours from now, he would burn the phoenixes into the wall, but that certainly didn't help them now. He repeated the burn, then made a tiny sigil beneath them, a sign to his future self not to be alarmed. It was a paradox, but they'd known for over a month that they'd be using the Time Turner; hopefully the man who came through in two hours' time would remember that.

Tucking the Time Turner back into its place of concealment, Nocturne led the way down the hall. Rather, she led the way for a grand total of five steps before Thanatos gently pulled her behind him, taking point. She shook her head, but let him.

They passed no one on their way to the elevator, but the entire department showed signs of neglect. Many departments had been closed when the Dark Lord took possession of the Ministry. And perhaps the abandonment of this section made more sense than it didn't; after all, the very survival of the Dark Lord was based on unraveling mysteries. If they could be unraveled once, they could be unraveled again. And, too, if there were more prophecies made…a hero who never learns his prophecy is far less likely to challenge.

They rode the elevator to the upper levels, trying to ignore the tension that screamed at them in such a mundane activity. It was somewhat akin to signing in and receiving badges. What is your purpose? Destroying the final Horcrux. Paving the way for the fall of a Dark Lord. Reshaping the world, and letting the pieces fall where they may, no longer capable of picking them up and putting them into a better picture.

In the walk from the elevator to the Dark Lord's private office, they passed only two people. They kept their heads down, their walk steady but not hurried, and excited no comment, no acknowledgment past an absent nod and a hand raised in greeting.

Miss Sigurdson closed and locked the door behind them, her blue eyes grave. A dark green traveling cloak hung over the back of her chair. "This is it," she greeted them.

Thanatos glanced through the open door into the inner office. The huge snake was coiled around the room, small lumps discernible against the pebbled skin.

Ingrid caught the direction of his look and smiled slightly. "Worked like a charm," she told him. "The dogs for her dinner were so grateful to be scratched and petted, they didn't care about the gloves or the cream. I used the whole pot just in case. The dogs weren't affected at all, so perhaps the gloves weren't necessary, but about half an hour after eating, Nagini was out like a light."

"How could you tell?" Nocturne muttered.

Shrugging, the blonde woman walked over to her desk, heels tapping against the floor. "I dropped a tray on her to see if she'd notice. She didn't."

Nocturne's lips twitched in a smile. The secretary had been carefully chosen for her ability to take calculated risks. She wasn't reckless, at least not in the way that some of the others were, but she had a solid instinct for when to gamble. "You have a way out?"

Sorting papers into several folders on the desk, she shrunk some of them and slipped them into her purse; glancing in, the other woman saw several shrunken suitcases, as well. Ingrid pointed to a gold phoenix pin key chain on the zipper of the purse. "Portkey to France; Gabrielle's got an International Portkey waiting for me there. It'll take me to America."

"America?" echoed Nocturne. "Interesting after."

"Yes, well, I've grown accustomed to being useful, and people tend to trust a leader more when he's married."

"First Lady Hannah Corner?"

She shrugged, glancing around to make sure she had everything she needed from the office. "First Ladies are expected to have their pet projects to save the world. Michael and I have become friends enough these past few years, and honestly, how much are we going to be able to relate to people who weren't part of the game? At least when the nightmares strike, we'll have someone who understands them." She pulled on the cloak and fastened the gold clasp, looping the handle of the purse around her wrist. Studying them for a long moment, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss against their cheeks. "Whatever you decide to do afterwards, be careful. And keep in touch. It's not just the game, you know?"

"Take care, Hannah."

They waited until she was safely away before walking into the inner office. "What we've been waiting for," Nocturne observed quietly, leaning against the desk near the wedge-shaped head. Almost absently, she cast a silencing spell on the room.

"Not quite," he replied, voice rough from disuse.

She nodded and readied her wand. He took up a position on the other side of the snake's head. They took several breaths, falling into unison, and locked eyes. He barked a harsh string of syllables, crystalline edges shimmering darkly in the air. Just before the knife-sharp sounds hit the scaly hide, Nocturne cast a shield that flickered around the entire snake. The incantation hit with a muted thunderclap and an explosion that left light dancing in their eyes.

When their vision cleared, there was nothing left of Nagini but an empty space. No scorch marks, no ashes, nothing to indicate she'd been there at all. They lowered their wands in unison, lips curving into brutal smiles.

They spent some time rifling through the desk, pulling the paperwork that indicated all the Death Eaters out in the field. They hadn't made any decisions about clean-up, but someone might find it useful.

Nocturne checked the clock on the wall. "Time to head back."

Back through the Ministry, to the double brand on the wall in the Department of Mysteries, through the tunnels to the doorway marked with the defiant phoenix. Thanatos tapped out the complicated pattern and they eased through the forming arch, stepping back into the cavernous basement of the Lair. As the bricks swung back into place behind them, they heard footsteps on the stairs. Shrouding themselves in their enveloping cloaks, they fled to the shadows at the far end of the room.

Crouched down into a heap of black fabric in the corner, they watched themselves walk the rest of the way down the stairs, their wands flaring into light. The earlier pair took the cloaks from the cardboard box by the hidden door. More footsteps followed, soft and nearly indiscernible over the noise drifting down from the gala above, and Severus Snape entered the basement.

They watched the soft conversation, followed by their departure. Severus stared past the doorway long after the bricks reformed into a solid wall. "Be careful, Hermione," he whispered.

Nocturne could actually feel Thanatos rolling his eyes.

The Potions Master's hand twitched towards the silver pocket watch in his waistcoat, but he didn't pull out. Instead, he took several deep breaths and walked back up the stairs.

The pair waited another two minutes before carefully crossing the basement, leaving the cloaks in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Two flights up, a house-elf with a Gryffindor crest pinning her toga in place ushered them into one of the costume rooms.

"Is it done?" Ginny asked, not even bothering to drop her glamour. She turned each of them about, making sure none of the tunnel dust had gotten to their inner costumes.

Thanatos nodded and pulled off the sturdy boots, swapping them for the white dress boots Lareine had assigned him for the evening.

"Is everything ready?" asked Nocturne, fixing a few wisps of hair that had strayed from her combs.

"Dessert's about to go up, and after that, the champagne. Draco and Tonks are at the orphanage; Blaise stayed long enough to help set up the wards before continuing on his way here. He should be at the Ministry in about ten minutes, along with a fair number of Birdies. They'll be ready."

"Then by all means, let's not delay dessert."

The trio entered the kitchen and blended seamlessly with the other elves and denizens of the Lair, taking up the elegant silver trays that held the desserts. Each person at the table above would receive one of the thick chocolate cakes only a few inches across, drenched in white chocolate with delicate leaves of dark chocolate floating along the top and in the pools on the plates. With the women delivering the trays, rather than having the house-elves send it up as they normally did, one dessert would be a prelude to the other.

Returning to the dining room with the others, Nocturne knelt gracefully between Severus and Lareine, sliding their plates in front of them. One of the house-elves stationed under the table took the tray from her, allowing her to fall gracefully back onto her mound of pillows.

Once all the Death Eaters were served, the house-elves sent up the other desserts, each woman and her bodyguard sharing one of the cakes.

Severus forced himself to eat normally, keeping up the light banter of the meal. Nocturne and Thanatos had returned safely, so he could only assume that their mission had been successful, but there was no sensible way to exchange signals when they right under the Dark Lord's-…well, what passed for the Dark Lord's nose.

Picking up on his tension, and expertly concealing her own, Lareine took the last forkful of her cake and held it out to him. His black eyes gleamed, but his lips curved into a smile and he carefully ate the morsel from her fork. Looking on, the Dark Lord nodded in approval.

When the plates cleared, a crystal flute of champagne appeared in front of every person in the room, even the girls and their bodyguards. Everyone but the Dark Lord stood, raising their glasses, and he raised his in reply.

"To our Master," Severus began, sonorous voice rolling through the room, "through whose wisdom peace has been restored, and to the re-opening of Hogwarts. May the children take our lessons to heart, and continue the good work we do."

A wordless murmur circled the table, and everyone took a drink.

It took only a moment for the men to realize something was terribly, terribly wrong. Upon swallowing, Voldemort choked, twitched once, twice, then sank bonelessly into his chair. For one ridiculously detached moment, Severus was relieved; he hadn't been entirely sure the poison would work the same way on the modified, reptilian tyrant as it had on Charlie Weasley and the niffler.

Every man around the table stared, not quite certain what to make of their Master's strange behavior. Schooling his face into an appropriate expression of puzzled- but cautious- concern, Severus leaned forward and laid a hand on the vibrant emerald robes. "My Lord?" he asked. "My Lord!"

"Go to St. Mungo's," Lareine ordered a house-elf. "Bring back the best they have."

The elf bowed and disappeared, but following his earlier orders, reappeared in the kitchen with his brethren.

"Goyle, go after it," Severus commanded. "They may not listen to a house-elf; you will make them listen to you."

Swallowing hard, the young man bobbed his head nervously and raced out of the room. For his former student, that was the only protection he had to offer. From there, it would be Pansy's choice whether or not to protect her husband.

"My Lord!" Severus repeated sharply. He gripped the Dark Lord's shoulder and gave a solid shake, quickly stepping out of view, as would any man who feared a curse for his audacity.

But the Dark Lord, vermillion eyes still wide open in frozen shock, merely sank a little further off the edge of the throne.

Severus straightened, his robes swirling around him with a snap. "Treachery is afoot," he snarled. "Get to the Ministry, make sure they attempt nothing there! I will wait with our Lord for the healer."

"Severus-"

"I gave you an order," he hissed, and Nott recoiled and nodded. "Go! Defend the Ministry!"

The men scrambled out of the room, wands drawn.

Ishtari Clemens, who'd been invited to the celebratory dinner but would have been leaving before the more private entertainment, remained in her seat, twirling the fragile stem of the champagne flute with elegant fingers. "Is it your practice to waste a healer's time on a dead man?" she asked lightly.

"Miss Clemens, I strongly suggest you leave."

Around and around went the glass. "Any particular reason?" she inquired, sounding more bored than anything else. He recognized the tone as a specialty of Blaise's; perhaps the betrothed pair had learned it together at their mothers' knees, the drawling affectations of the aristocracy, who must never show what they truly feel. "They've won, haven't they? And I strongly doubt they'll be so foolish as to allow the Inner Circle to live a second time. "

"They might surprise you," he replied dryly. "Miss Clemens, finish your champagne and leave. You'll be safe enough at the Ministry."

Lareine shook her head and pulled a white satin ribbon from her bodice. She tied it quickly around Ishtari's neck. "Here, this will guarantee it," she told her. "Make sure you fall in such a way as to keep it showing."

A flash of understanding- not the entire picture, but just enough of it- crossed her regal features. She drained her glass and set it carefully back on the table. "Congratulations, Professor."

"Just be discrete, Miss Clemens."

She gave him a sardonic look and Disapparated, ensuring she would arrive at the Ministry before the sleeping potion took effect.

Lareine clapped her hands to gather the shocked attention of her employees. "Quickly now, hands to your chess pieces, they'll activate in a moment! When you arrive in the house, stay there. Do not leave! Just find your rooms and get settled. I'll be there soon, and I'll explain everything then."

Though stunned, they obeyed without question, and they soon disappeared as the Portkeys activated.

Ginny Weasley dropped her glamour and crossed to the Dark Lord, studying him thoughtfully. Then, with calm deliberation, she kicked him savagely in the ankle. "That's for the roosters," she told him. She turned to the others. "Shall we?"

"Tallow, strip the rest of the rooms as fast as you possibly can and get to the new house in Paris," Lareine instructed her head elf. "Do not leave anyone behind."

Flicking his ears at the dead body, the house-elf bowed extremely low and vanished downstairs.

Thunderous booms rolled overhead, but none of them raced outside to see what was going on. They already knew; in the grand tradition of Fred and George Weasley, fireworks bloomed in the skies over London, a red and gold phoenix spreading enormous wings over the Ministry. The bells atop Gringott's tolled joyously, and a voice amplified a thousand-fold cried out from the tilted tower atop the bank.

"The Dark Lord is defeated!" The male voice announced. "They've done it, they've won! The Dark Lord is dead! Truly dead!"

"We should probably make sure of that," Ginny noted clinically.

"I don't suppose sticking his head on a pike would be very civilized," Lareine murmured.

"Whoever said we were civilized?"

Lips twitching, Nocturne pulled her wand and neatly severed the Dark Lord's head from his neck. "Leave it," she instructed when Ginny leaned over to pick it up. "They can't have any reason to doubt that it's him. Didn't we learn that?"

Unscrewing the top of one of the white queens scattered on the table as a decoration, Severus lifted out the tiny pot of gleaming chrism, a platinum bound, unicorn-hair brush slipping from his sleeve. "They won't be able to," he said, a trifle smugly. "After all, Ollivander was the one to sell him his wand, back when he first started Hogwarts."

While Lareine focused on the elves, Severus was conscious of the other three watching him with intense concentration. He'd told them, more or less, how he'd determined that Charlie was real, but hadn't gone into too much detail. Now they watched him pull the reproduced sigil from a pocket, studying it until he could see the design emblazoned on the back of his eyelids. He opened the green robes only as far as he had to, exposing the narrow chest, and began painting the suspension onto the flesh. With the design finished, it flared into violent light, leaving the sigil permanently embossed in gold on the skin.

Noise slowly filtered in from outside, as people rushed out of restaurants and flats to try to understand the ruckus. Cheers began, others adding to the fireworks already overhead.

"We should go," Lareine murmured. "They'll come bursting in here soon enough." She kissed each of them on the cheek, even Ginny, much to the redhead's bemusement, and curled a hand around her black pawn. "Good luck, and I'll see you again." A moment later, she disappeared.

Ginny glanced towards Nocturne and Thanatos, the trio lapsing into the silent communication they'd had so long to perfect, and she nodded shortly. "I suppose I could learn to knit," she said dryly, and Disapparated.

"Knitting's over-rated," muttered Nocturne.

Thanatos barked a laugh. Slowly, the long, platinum blond hair shortened and darkened, changing into an unruly black mass atop his head, and the icy grey eyes deepened to a hard emerald. The height and muscle remained, the skin darkening just a few shades, and on his forehead, barely visible through the forelock, an angry red lightning bolt etched into his skin.

Severus shook his head. "Harry Bloody Potter," he muttered. "Harry Bloody Potter beat me at chess."

"Repeatedly," Harry told him, voice still harsh from disuse. Without the added roughness of the few times he'd spoken as Thanatos, Severus could just barely recognize the deeper voice of the man the boy had been. "It was an honor, sir."

"The honor belongs to us all, I believe, Mister Potter."

Nocturne pulled a pair of battered glasses from her corset and slipped them onto her friend's nose. He blinked for a moment, shoved them further up his nose, but stopped squinting. "That'll take some getting used to," he chuckled. "I hear owl chess makes for a good game," he continued casually.

"I hear it does."

Harry nodded and offered his hand to his former professor, and it was taken and shaken without hesitation. "I look forward to our next game." He shared a glance with Nocturne and promptly Disapparated.

For a long moment- too long, as the noise of the crowd got louder- Severus and Nocturne stood staring at each other. Severus slipped off his outer robes and draped them around the young woman, concealing her costume.

Biting her lip thoughtfully, she slid her arms through the sleeves and fastened the robes, the high collar closing completely about her neck. They were both too long and too big for her, but once they covered her, she let the glamour drop, and Hermione Granger stood before him, dressed in his robes as she'd been once before.

He passed a hand over her silver-streaked curls, careful not to disturb the combs that held them back. "Where will you go?" he asked quietly.

"We haven't decided yet," she replied, just as softly. "We want to make sure the kids will be safe in case of any attempted reprisals against you. I guess we'll figure it out after that."

"Hermione…" He trailed off, black eyes studying her thin face. "There should be words."

"I doubt either of us knows what they should be."

He smiled slightly. Tracing the fine lines of her face with one finger, he tilted her chin up and kissed her gently, deeply, a kiss he couldn't quite bear to make good-bye. "Be careful," he whispered.

"You, too." Swallowing hard, she backed away and Disapparated.

He stood alone in the room for a breath, then another, the decorations stripped by efficient house-elves, the table and all the other chairs removed. Only the silver throne remained, with its surprisingly sorry burden. The Dark Lord's head balanced haphazardly on his neck, and after a moment's consideration, Severus moved it to the emerald covered lap, laying one of the skeletal hands over the top of the head.

His sense of the macabre suitably entertained, Severus took a last look at the man he'd served and hated and betrayed for so long, the man who'd shaped his life in so many inalterable ways. There should be words, words to celebrate the end of an age, words to usher in a new era hopefully better than the once preceding, words to mark the end and beginning and end of things.

But in the end, he simply closed his eyes and Disapparated to a house in the French countryside, to make use of the new beginning he'd finally earned.


	21. Ouroboros

**Disclaimer: I am not the great JKR.**

_A/N: So, here we are! Done at last! So please, don't forget to leave a review on your way out!_

**Chapter Twenty-One: Ouroboros**

Hanging his traveling cloak on the hook by the door, Severus handed his outer robes to Ezekiel and accepted the handful of letters in return. The house, located within easy distance of the Chenonceaux Wizarding Research Library, was filled with the scent of the lavender fields all around, the purple stalks in bloom. When the weather was nice, the elves left the windows open to let the breezes carry the fragrance through the house. Every so often, though nothing was said, he'd see clumps of white heather scattered along the windowsills, adding their light scent to recreate the olfactory echoes of his dreams.

Gabrielle Delacour had chosen very well for him, and in the fifteen months he'd lived there, he'd learned to be quite fond of his home. It was comfortably situated, not a sprawling mansion that declined, mostly unused, as his last domicile had been. Large enough for a handful of guest bedrooms, a study that opened onto a significant personal library, a basement laboratory, his personal suite, and the assorted public rooms that houses were expected to have, it still managed to feel like a private, personable space. He often took tea in the garden out back, lovingly tended by the elves. At a small table on the edge of the property, he could look towards the house and the gardens, or away towards the river and the oceans of lavender.

He headed that way, the letters gripped in one hand as he rolled up his sleeves with the other. It had taken time to become comfortable in his house, more time for him to relax into the sensation of home, but within his property, he'd taken to an easy informality.

Lareine teased him about constantly. They met every Tuesday afternoon for tea, alternating between his garden and a small Parisian café of which she'd grown fond. He'd seen the new Lair only once, assisting her in setting up the complicated wards that would keep the madam and her employees safe from attempts of revenge, but hadn't set foot in it again after that. She never pressed him on that, never teased on that score. Instead, she teased him for rolling up his sleeves and untucking his shirt, for the hair that grew longer down his back because he never bothered to take the time to cut it, about the queenly cat who'd decided his garden was an excellent place to raise kittens.

He'd tried once to chase the cat off, the first time he saw her, but she sat back on her haunches and gave him such a fierce look that he named her Minerva and left her alone. When the winter grew cold, he even pretended not to notice the felines curled into a bed in the warmth of the kitchen.

The conversations in their weekly tea were not entirely teasing, of course. Potions, also, covered a great deal of ground, as they discussed new articles, new techniques, and occasionally, whatever he was researching. She gave him light updates on some of the girls, humorous stories that had nothing to do with the business they were in and everything to do with the strange family to be found within the Lair. Politics frequently found their way into the meanderings discussions, though they dissected the people as much as the actions.

Much of that information came from the letters. They'd been a shock when they first started arriving, more so when they continued. Letters from his former students, now former compatriots, scattered all over the world in their various tasks or retreats.

Blaise Zabini, urbane and witty as ever- and just as prone to dry chatter- had stepped forward as Minister of Magic before the fireworks even faded from the sky. Together with the Birdies who'd accompanied him, he gathered up the sleeping forms of the Inner Circle and put them under careful guard, not in the slime-slicked, bone-ridden dungeons, but in the detention cells a few levels higher. As time progressed, he made certain they received trials that were as fair as they could be under the circumstances. That Blaise was a Slytherin, and raised in the expectation of joining these men, offered them a degree of mercy they wouldn't have gotten otherwise. Many were still sentenced to death, for their purposeful actions in two separate wars. Some, whose actions had been less reprehensible or whose motivations were a bit murkier, were sentenced to lifetime imprisonment. Still others were given lesser sentences, or largely pardoned with a period of probation. Ishtari Clemens numbered among these, and Blaise had deliberately not presided over that trial to disavow any appearance of favoritism.

Where Blaise presided over the majority of the trials, they were run and organized by Tonks, new Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Starting with the Birdies and carefully recruiting outwards, she slowly rebuilt the Aurory, giving them fierce training even Mad-Eye would have approved of. She was an exacting boss but a fair one, and her fairness extended to her enemies as well. She and Blaise worked well together, doing everything they could to make the transition as smooth as possible and to keep the vengeance to a minimum. It was not entirely bloodless, and more than one Death Eater had been torn apart by a mob while awaiting trial in their homes. They made it clear, however, that such mob justice would not be tolerated.

The Diplomatic Corps was turned inside out by Susan Bones, who'd spent most of the previous years traveling between flocks of Birdies. She took their web of contacts and solidified it, strengthening it with new ties made outside of the secret alliances. New treaties were written, and it was made politely- but explicitly- clear that no treaty made under the Dark Lord's reign would be considered valid. The training she gave her new recruits overlapped in many ways with the new Aurors, every diplomat able to defend themselves, and they learned how to dissect words and tones with frightening precision.

And, as it turned out, Hogwarts did re-open in the fall, with Lee Jordan as Headmaster. There was still a great deal of work to be done on the grounds and castle but it was safe for students now. The first year or so would be mostly catching up, correcting the gaps left by the years of no available schooling. Like all his fellows, he'd become an excellent judge of character, and the faculty slowly filled out with skilled instructors that he could trust. Under Draco's order, the Malfoy fortune has been used to build a huge orphanage cum prep school outside of Hogsmeade. The street rat army split into three parts: those of school age went to Hogwarts for remedial lessons, the eight to eleven year olds went to the orphanage to learn the basics, like reading and writing, and those younger than eight remained in the country house, looked after by Paisley and Luna, among others.

Viktor Krum actually numbered among those others. Severus hadn't truly been surprised when Krum joined the Death Eaters, given the education he'd received at the hands of Karkaroff. He also hadn't been unduly bothered to learn that Krum was a phoenix before he was a snake. The Dark Lord had assigned him to India, and it had been curse that controlled Crabbe to kill Padma Patil, his subtle workings that continued to keep the country unsettled after the death of the martyr. He'd been tried along with everyone else, but unanimously granted a pardon once his co-conspirators testified on his behalf, explaining that he'd joined the Death Eaters only to act as a spy.

Not long after his pardon, Pansy Parkinson had received permission from the Ministry to divorce her permanently imprisoned husband. While divorce was rare in the wizarding world, it did occasionally happen, and her work for the phoenix contrasted with his work for the Dark Lord was deemed sufficient cause. Less than a month later, she married Viktor Krum; there were few surprised when her son was born with a distinctly large nose.

Over the winter, Severus received invitations to two weddings. Once her trial was done and her pardon issued, Ishtari Clemens was wed to Blaise Zabini in a grand affair that gave all of wizarding England cause to celebrate. The first many months after the Dark Lord's demise had been full of trials and punishments and the backbreaking business of getting everything straightened out and rebuilt. Now, finally, they could begin to just enjoy. The pair were genuinely happy to be getting married; never drastically in love, they were nonetheless very fond of each other, and had been betrothed from the cradle. That their union would be a symbol to contain the fractious elements of their society was not lost on either of them. Severus attended, wrapped in several layers of glamours which, courtesy of Tonks, would stand against the Aurors' sweeping probes.

The second invitation was honorary, given that the accompanying letter explicitly stated it would be too dangerous to come. As late winter gave way to spring, Michael Corner and Hannah Abbott were married in a huge ceremony in Washington D.C. It was a rare occasion for the American magical community; most of their elected leaders were already married, and at least half-reviled by the people they were supposed to serve. Michael, while he had his share of detractors, was proving himself a very capable president. Hannah had set aside the bubbly impishness of Miss Sigurdson, but kept the calm efficiency, and had quickly become a beloved figure. He didn't try to attend, probably wouldn't have even if the invitation had been worded differently, but he did send along a letter with his congratulations and several gifts.

The light, teasing thank you for the pot of silky hand cream was nearly in the teasing tone Hannah had so often employed as Ingrid.

He received letters from all of them far more frequently than he'd expected to, and answered them with a pleasure that continued to surprise him. He discussed research with Luna Lovegood, who was much more to the point in writing than she was in person. He directed Pansy to the better places to acquire potions for the children under her care. He patiently answered Lee's questions on classroom management and how to run the school, as well as the best ways to re-establish the interwoven layers of wards around the school property. With Gabrielle, he discussed art and music and literature, refusing to be drawn into a discussion on dance, and was perfectly content to argue the merits of various forms of beauty. He valued each conversation because they, more than anything else, reminded him of how much he'd changed.

Severus Snape was, in essentials, much as he ever was, but for the first time in his entire life, he was his own master. There was no father looming with drink and fists, no Dark Lord throwing curses and foul commands, and- though he occasionally felt guilty at admitting it- no Albus Dumbledore with his twinkling eyes and greater good. He was aware, in a way he hadn't been as a youth, that his choices would continue to have consequences, as all choices will, but they were his to make.

Most of the letters he valued.

And then there were some he treasured.

Draco, Ginny, and Harry had settled into New Zealand, frequently hopping across the waters to explore the vast Outback. The wildness seemed to soothe them, tame something vital within them that had been too fierce for too long. Their letters, however, came regularly, even when all other contact vanished for a time. They touched on the world stage, on their former players, but as time passed, the letters became increasingly personal, a sign of the trust they had in him and of the healing they slowly found. Sometimes the letters said more with what wasn't written than what was, but practice made his adept at reading those unsaid thoughts.

So when Draco mentioned casually that Ginny looked a wreck when she cried, Severus understood that it wasn't simply a light joke about blotchy faces and swollen eyes. It was the thaw in the valkyrie, the snap as something that had broken a long time ago broke again so it could truly be healed. He understood that it was the first time she'd cried since the world as she knew it ended, knew she was grieving for her family, for her friends, for all the things they'd done and lost and been.

When Ginny cracked a biting joke about Harry trying to tame the wild Granians that raced through the hills, he knew it was memory that haunted the young man, memories of Hagrid who, in his bumbing, big-hearted, ineffectual way, was the first friend famous Harry Potter had ever had. As he continued to read of the wild animals Harry continued to bring to the sprawling cave system they'd turned into home, Severus knew that taming the creatures went a long way to taming the rage he'd cultivated for so long as Thanatos.

And when Harry said that Ginny and Draco had started going to specialists to see if the damage done to her during the Final Battle was reversible, he understood that it wasn't an idle curiosity, but their need to see if they could have a family forged through blood instead of fire. Ginny was, after all, her mother's daughter; however cold she made herself, Molly shone through in quiet ways, in the moments when she did a small kindness for a child, when she worked out a sudden burning fury by making mountains of food. And for Draco…Draco, who'd learned so much and come so far, who was the last scion of a tarnished line…for him, it was a chance to have a real family, to raise a child, or perhaps even children, who wouldn't be measured by a father's choices and expectations and plans. For two people who'd lost almost all of their childhood, it was a chance to nurture an innocence they could no longer comprehend. A chance to create, when so much of their energy was spent on destroying.

And sometimes accompanying letters, sometimes just a single strip of paper on its own, came chess moves. Harry and Severus had played several games in this way over the past fifteen months. Just as in that room on the top story of the Lair, each had two chess sets: one to play games with anyone who happened to be there with them, and one that waited patiently for the next move to arrive by owl.

And unlike the previous chess set, it was truly just a game of chess.

It was still a daily bemusement, something to ponder in quiet moments, that he was friends with Harry Potter. It was not simply a camaraderie, not a working partnership that settled for familiarity, but a genuine friendship like he hadn't experienced since Lily. Their written discussions were broad-ranging, very rarely touching on the past, not even to explain the finer points of the game they'd played out. Those details came from Draco and Ginny, filling in all the pieces he'd missed or been purposefully excluded from.

The one person he did not hear from was Hermione. Nor, if he was honest with himself, had he expected to. Draco and Ginny had each other to ground them, and Harry had Draco to teach him how to be himself again now that Thanatos was just a haunting nightmare. But Hermione…Nocturne was far more than just a memory for her.

He occasionally had news of her through the others, a note or post script mentioning a brief visit. She never stayed with anyone for long; Ginny, Harry, and Draco were sometimes able to keep her for a week or so, but with most others, she stayed only a few minutes, or a few hours. She traveled relentlessly, ghosts driving her across the world to see the results of their actions.

_Sometimes it's easier to kill someone_, Ginny had written after one of these fleeting visits. _You raise a knife, you raise a wand, and when it's done, they lie dead at your feet, never again able to bother you outside of nightmares. She killed enough in the early days- we all did, as we fought to carve a niche deep enough for our game- but after becoming Nocturne, it was a very different form of destruction. Suddenly she was destroying them from within, but destroying herself as well. She stayed in one place- one country, one city, one building, one room- and all too often one position. She was chained there in a way the rest of us weren't. And now, as the rest of us try to pretend we're not terrified to have possessions and homes, she's trying to remember the world beyond maps and pictures and stories. All the things she was never sure she was going to see. I'd rather live with the blood than with the confusion. When it comes down to it, knowing now what I do, I would still choose to kill- it's easier to justify._

Shaking his head, Severus settled into one of the chairs at the back of the garden, glancing through the handful of letters. A thick packet from Luna, a sizable missive from Hannah Abbot Corner, a heavy envelope where Ginny, Draco, and Harry had taken turns writing lines of the address, and the newest issue of a Potions journal he subscribed to. He set the last aside with the intention of reading throug it later; Lareine would be receiving hers today, as well, and he wanted to take notes before their next discussion.

As he set it on the table, the journal bumped up against a tray holding far more than his usual tea. "What is this?" he muttered, eyeing the neat of pairs of everything on the tray.

"Perhaps Ezekiel thought you might be polite enough to offer your guest some refreshment?"

He stiffened at the pebble-washed voice, turning slowly to see Hermione Granger walking out of the lavender field. Bits of the plant clung to the plain black robes draped over one tan arm, more catching in the curls that tumbled down her back in a mostly contained mass. She was still thin, her bone structure delicate beneath the skin, but she looked healthier, her warm brown eyes alert and alive. Despite the robes, she wore Muggle clothing, a pair of simple but fitted denims and a sleeveless, high-collared white shirt, a navy and lavender striped tie knotted loosely. Through the gap of the unbuttoned collar, he could barely see the heavy scars that ravaged her throat, the tie keeping the shirt closed enough for comfort. Well-worn shoes dangled from her other hand, her bare feet sinking into the soil.

"Would you like some tea, Miss Granger?" he asked lightly, rising to his feet.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you." She sat down on the other side of the small table, pretending not to notice that he didn't sit until she was comfortable, and accepted the cup of tea he handed her. "I hear you've been keeping busy."

"The library at Chenonceaux is quite well stocked," he agreed mildly. He took a sip of the steaming liquid. "And your travels? Have they given you what you seek?"

She studied her bare feet thoughtfully, examining the streaks of dirt, and didn't immediately answer. "I'm not sure what I was seeking," she said eventually, "so I wouldn't begin to know if I've found it."

"But you've found something."

She arched one eyebrow. "Have I?"

He set down the tea, folding his hands in his lap. "I don't think you would be here if you hadn't found something, whether it was what you were seeking or not."

"You're a hard man to forget."

"So I've heard," he replied dryly, and started a ghost of a laugh from her.

Stirring her spoon through her tea- not because she'd added anything, but because she needed the activity- Hermione tried to recognize the next path of the conversation. She'd gotten better at talking, to an extent, but she'd been so long in silence that she still had to remind herself to do it. "I've been trying to put a name to things," she told him finally. "I can put names to what Ginny and Draco have, to what Blaise and Ishtari have, to what Hannah and Michael have, to what Pansy and Viktor have. The names are easy. But you and I…"

Severus turned his signet ring around on his finger and said nothing, patiently waiting for her to find the words. Or not. He left it to her to choose, and that more than anything else was what gave her the impulse to continue.

"After my name was out in the open, not a secret you could pretend not to know, we danced around each other, never touching. Before that, it was…well, whatever it was, and after that was something else entirely, and I don't know what the names are."

"Is a name necessary?"

"I don't know," she admitted, clearly frustrated by that fact. "Names have power if they're used correctly; how often did we learn that? And yet…"

"Yet?"

"Who am I?"

"You are a brilliant, resourceful, courageous, and frankly devious young woman with an endless capacity for research, planning, and application."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes, I did." He held up a hand to forestall her protest. "It's just a name."

"Tell that to Romeo and Juliet."

"It's just a name," he repeated softly. "After all, who am I?"

She nodded to acknowledge the point.

The unlikely pair sat in silence for a time, sipping tea as the breeze brought the smell of the lavender wafting over the terrace.

"Ginny couldn't cry for Charlie," she said abruptly. "While they discussed the poison, while they watched Andrei put the poison in the food, while they watched him eat it, watched him die, while they stood beside his grave and put on a show of mourning for everyone, she couldn't cry."

"You do what needs to be done until it is done," he replied mildy. "Then you can react as you wish to, rather than what is most appropriate for the scheme."

"She cried for Charlie. A few months ago." He nodded once to indicate that he'd been informed. "First she cried for Charlie, but after a while, she cried for the others."

"Yes."

"Because she loves them."

"Yes."

"Why can't I cry?"She stood and paced around the small terrace, her robes sliding from the back of the chair to the mulch. "What if the name for us is love, but I'm too broken to feel it?"

"You're here, aren't you?"

She stopped and scowled at him. "What does that mean?"

He stood and walked across to her, one hand rising to push the heavy curls from her face. "After fifteen months, you're here. Forgive me if I choose to believe that means something."

"But what?" she asked, almost pleading. "What does it mean?"

"That not everything needs a name." Severus traced the fine bones of her face, wanting desperately to do so much more than that, but not wanting to spook her. Not when she'd finally come to see him. And he'd accept whatever time she gave him, without pushing her for more,because he more than anyone understood how terrifying true intimacy was.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and he slowly brought his arms up around her. "What if I really am broken?" she whispered.

"It's not the breaking that defines us, Hermione, but the way we choose to put the pieces back together." His dark eyes traveled around the house that had somehow become home, the house-elves of whom he was bemusedly fond, the stack of letters from former students who'd become friends. "We all break. Will you accept help in putting the pieces together?"

She shifted in his arms, tilting her head back to study him. Then, so slowly he almost thought he was imagining it, she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth, a Mona Lisa smile floating about her lips. That kiss was followed by another, in the opposite corner, and another, back to the first, until he gave a low growl and captured her mouth with his.

And it didn't matter whether he was kissing Hermione or Nocturne.

Because we was kissing _her_.

For as long as she'd let him.

Quite by accident, she'd given him a chance to reclaim all the broken pieces of his life, the chance to reform them into a picture he could live with quite contently. And now, finally, he had the chance to repay her- by offering her the same grace.

For as long as she'd let him.

And perhaps, once she'd put together as many pieces as she could, she might even stay.


End file.
